


And it came to pass at the end of two full years, that Pharaoh dreamed: and, behold, he stood by the river

by saderaladon



Category: Marilyn Manson (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bondage, Butt Plugs, Cock Slapping, Complicated feelings about butt sex, Complicated feelings in general, Consent Issues, Cruelty and Kindness, Dildos, Dirty Talk, Dirty Talk About Feces, Disgust Issues, Disturbing Recipes, Double Anal Penetration, Drug Abuse, Drug Use, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Failed Attempts at Certain Sexual Practices, Feels, First Time, First Time with Issues, Foot Fetish, Foot Fetish Oficially Confirmed by Ginger Fish, Ginger Fish gradually understands what he's gotten himself into, Heterosexual sex (described), Heterosexual sex (mentioned), I wasn't paid at all, I wasn't paid for the word count of "fucking", John 5 is the spiritual leader of this relationship, John 5 plays guitar, Lack of Communication, M/M, Multi, Non-Linear Narrative, Otherwise mostly homo, Poor Ginger Fish, Relationship Issues, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Smoking, So cooking advice, Spanking (mentioned), That is a correct way to cut calamari though, Threesome - F/M/M, Threesome - M/M/M, Tim Skold is a horrible shit, Tim Skold is not a role model, Vomiting, acid trip, bad trip, really dirty talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-27 15:30:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19015726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saderaladon/pseuds/saderaladon
Summary: Some peaks and valleys Tim traverses in his emotional battle taxi.





	And it came to pass at the end of two full years, that Pharaoh dreamed: and, behold, he stood by the river

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, the cosmos spoke to me again with its magical rays and made the bastards talk in my head some more.
> 
> So I wrote this.
> 
> Here are the warnings.
> 
> This a sequel to another fic of mine: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18934837  
> Which you will have to read first to understand this one, because there're constant references and citations, for I pray to our Lady of Perpetual Repetition. Sorry. 
> 
> The narrative is non-linear and probably makes these guys' touring schedule really fucked up, but as I said, I don't know a single thing about that anyway. Also, Naked Lunch is my Bible, so this is pretty mild.  
> If you are confused by anything feel free to drop me a line and I will consult the cosmic rays screwing with my brain and try to come up with an answer for you.
> 
> The narrative is non-linear and has a potential to upset a reader who cares about the bastards or a sensitive reader in general with some seriously fucked up shit close to the beginning of the text. So beware.
> 
> As mentioned in the summary certain individuals are at it again in their emotional battle taxi, but this time even worse, certain other individuals are yet again being eaten off a plate, but this time with seasoning, and John 5 plays guitar and actually mostly behaves and sometimes is even awesome. Let's all be like John 5. :)
> 
> There are oh so many sex related things happening in the text that one is not to try at home.
> 
> There are some severe sex related issues displayed by one character and dealt with by two others in the text. Probably better not to try those approaches at home either.
> 
> There are conversations about human feces being conducted. The actual shit is absent, unless you squint at it with a microscope, but still. The talk is pretty explicit.
> 
> There're a couple of words we should stop using present in the text. Like, let's not call people faggots.
> 
> I don't speak Swedish. If somebody does and there is a fuck up there, please say so and let this language nerd rest in peace.
> 
> Also, let's wash our hands before eating and after toilet.  
> Let us all be happy.
> 
>  
> 
> Enjoy.
> 
>  
> 
> P.S.  
> English is still not my native language.  
> Nothing here belongs to me. I am not even sure I wrote it.

***  
Headache  
***

 

"No, sorry, I've got to get this done, okay?" Tim says, when Ginger asks him if he wants to go too. "You guys have fun."

Ginger leaves.

Tim smokes, standing by the window, and then nothing, no work gets done.

He roams about the room, frustrated, stuck, things he needs pressing at the back of his throat, hurting and escaping him. He cannot write a single line. He sits on the floor, rocking and chanting, like some sort of a Buddhist monk. He goes to the bathroom and opens the tap, he waits, until the bath is full, standing, hand around the back of his neck, and then he bends over and shoves his whole head into the cold water. He stays like that until he almost cannot breathe anymore. He roams about the room. He looks at himself in the mirror. He finds Ginger's belt on the floor and slaps his hand with it for ten times in a row. He sits and stares at the screen.

Six or seven hours later he hears the door opening, John laughing softly, Ginger saying something he cannot quite follow, some plastic bag noise. He doesn't turn around to greet them, when they get into the room.

"Hey, Tim! What's up?" John asks.

He rubs at his eyes, feeling sand underneath the fingers.

"Do you mind? I'm trying to work. Can you go to another room?"

He hears somebody inhaling sharply behind his back.

 

They go to another room.

He sits there for two more hours, staring at the screen, numb, his back tense, feeling something rotten squirming inside his chest, cold and slick and coiling, listening to the muffled sounds of John and Ginger talking in the other room, getting up, sitting down, taking things into their hands. He sits there motionless even after it is dark, staring at the screen, which is also completely black by now. He cannot write a single line.

The door opens a bit, light coming into the room.

"Fuck, Tim," he hears Ginger's voice. "Come on."

He scoops him off the chair, his hands soft and warm on his shoulders. They walk into the other room, Tim dragging his feet.

"God, you look like shit," John says, and they make him sit on the bed, four hands touching him, scraping his scalp, pouring water down his throat, putting things he spits out into his mouth, hugging him, holding him, letting him go.

He puts his face into the pillow and sobs, shuddering, his lungs full of feathers and dust and dry leaves and mold, tasting bile on the back of his tongue, a black hole in his mind.

 

 

***  
Waste disposal  
***

 

"Oh, fuck. Fuck, Tim."

It is not the first time Ginger sits on Tim's cock. It is maybe the fourth one, or the fifth. But it is always like a first time for Ginger.

The window's open, the sun comes into the room, the clock on the wall shows it is 10:15 in the morning, not that he is looking at it; he is looking at Ginger, who is trying hard to get him in.

"You fucking failure. Come on. Give me your dirthole," Tim spits out.

Ginger grabs at his cock with his lube covered hand and misses, whining, he grabs at it again, tries to push down on it, but it only slides past his hole, Ginger biting his lips, Tim looking up at him, at the red spots on his cheeks, at his gulping throat, his shaking shoulders, laughing, not doing anything to help him, something burning hot and dense and massive in his chest.

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger moans, when his ass finally gives in. Tim feels his cock getting sucked inside him, down the slippery fucking slope, feels lightnings stinging his arms. Ginger gives a full body shiver, when all of Tim's cock is finally inside him, then moves a bit and loses his balance, his lube covered sweaty hand sliding down his thigh, landing on Tim's hip, Ginger stumbling on his cock.

"Oh my God, oh my fucking God," he says and tries to sit up, lifting his lube covered sweaty hand and touching his own face without thinking, lips quivering, legs sliding wider, body tilting, his fucking hole so tight and slick around Tim and all of it so ridiculous he grits his teeth.

"Come on. You pathetic shit. Fuck yourself. Show me how much you like it. Fuck your dirty craphole on my cock," Tim spits out again, his choice of words not exactly accidental. His choice of words made for him by the compressed plutonium core of his chest. His choice of words landing like a punch.

"Oh fuck, Tim, fuck," Ginger stutters, his body convulsing, his frantic movement sending electric charges right into Tim's cock and down his spine.

"Do I have to fucking slap you?" Tim asks, grabbing both of his hands, pulling him down, crushing them with his fingers mid air, Ginger sliding off his cock and immediately grinding back down, panicking.

"Oh my f-fu... Tim. Fuck, Tim," he breathes out, pushing back several times more, anxious and agitated, his own cock swaying and touching Tim's stomach.

"Yeah?" Tim smirks. "Good? Come on. Fuck yourself. Fuck the shit out of yourself. Make yourself come. Use your filthy fucking hole."

Ginger cries out, Tim squeezing his hands tight, holding him half up, not letting him lie down, not letting him sit up, not letting him be comfortable, making him push his ass back awkwardly, wriggling and bending and in an endless fall, suspended in the air.

"I fucking hate you," Ginger says, his sweaty hair covering half of his face. "Fuck, Tim. I'm gonna come."

"Good," Tim says, not sure which sentence he's responding to. "Good. Fuck yourself on me."

"I'm gonna come right fucking now," Ginger says again, twitching, almost toppling over himself.

"I know," Tim says, baring his teeth. "You are going to come on my cock. You're going to come fucking your shithole on me."

"I hate you. I fucking hate you," Ginger cries out, moving his hips to a stuttering, faltering rhythm that maybe only John could play. "Gonna come. Don't let me go. Don't let me go. Fucking hate you."

Tim feels his muscles clenching around his cock, his shoulders going tense, his face broken, eyes scared, body convulsing, and pushes himself up half way, gripping Ginger's wrists, working his abdomen, lifting both of them, Ginger sliding down his length in a discontinuous manner, not smooth at all, flapping like a fucking flag in the wind, coming and shuddering and lost.

They stay like that for some seconds, Tim straining his muscles, Ginger shivering, like a pair of fucking sharp angles drawn in the air.

"I'm gonna lick you now," Tim says, bending his leg, lifting his knee, flipping them over. Ginger lands on the bed on his back, head jerking at the impact. Tim sees his gulping white throat and fuck, does he want to bite it. Fuck, does he want to rip it open. "Spread your damn legs."

"F-fu—"

Tim grabs Ginger's legs and pulls them up and apart.

"Shut up. I'm gonna lick your shithole. I'm gonna do that till I come."

And he falls between his cheeks, mouth open, licking at his hole, hot, wet, stretched, fucking pulsing, crushing his cock in his fist and coming within seconds.

He breathes for ten or fifteen more, still pressed into Ginger's ass, and then slithers up his body, careless, bones meeting bones, heavy, grinding, Ginger swearing and gasping sharply. He squeezes his thighs around him, pushes his elbows into his sides, takes his broken, lost, fractured face into his hands.

"I hate you," Ginger says.

"Wanna fucking kiss?" Tim asks, grinning.

"Yeah," Ginger breathes out, his mouth open, lips soft and wet.

 

They kiss. They fucking kiss.

 

 

 

***  
John's birthday party  
***

 

Tim licks the powder off his finger, puts the can opener he's been grinding the pills with aside, looks at the result. He bends and licks a third of the powder off the plate. He giggles.

He knows he has less than twenty minutes left till John and Ginger arrive. His head is spinning. The elementary particles around it are spinning too. He looks at his watch again.

Fuck, he is wasted.

He looks around the kitchen. He looks at the plate with powder again. He takes it in his hand, puts it on his palm, drawing circles in the powder with his middle finger and licking it.

He takes the cake out of the oven, burning his hand a bit.

He takes the ugly cake out of the oven, giggling and licking his powder covered fingers.

He sits on the floor, legs spread wide, the ugly cake next to him. _Camaraderie_ , he thinks. He licks the powder covered plate.

 

"Hello," he says, lifting his head and looking up, when there're suddenly two pairs of shoes standing at the entrance. "Happy fucking birthday."

 

John spanks him hard in the morning, Tim coming boiling hot, Ginger refusing to have anything to do with them, sitting in a chair with shaking hands and an erection.

"God, it is fucking delicious," John says, eating Tim's ugly cake with his bare fingers, Tim lying on the bed on his chest, limbs thrown wide, laughing into the pillow and convulsing.

 

 

***  
Crucifixion  
***

 

"Fuck," Tim says and sobs a little. "We should definitely stop torturing my cock so much."

Ginger looks at him exasperated.

"Fuck off, Tim. Like I asked to do it," he says and then turns away.

And he didn't.

It was Tim who found one of John's ridiculous belts under the bed. It was Tim who got ideas. It was Tim who decided they should come into fruition. It was Tim who worked Ginger up so much the fucking bed was shaking under him. It was Tim who told him to slap his stupid cock with that horrendous fucking belt of John's. It was Tim who responded with 'I know' and smirked, when Ginger said he would rather Tim hurt him.

It was all Tim.

 

"Fuck off," Ginger says, turning away from him, and then in the morning he's gone.

"Fuck off," Ginger says and spends four days at his own place, which is, first, unbelievable, and second, fucking stings.

"Come on," Tim says, and they go to John's after Ginger comes back to his house, where he makes him slap his fucking cock again, this time with John watching, whining on the bed and not providing much of the supervision he constantly boasts about.

 

Stupid guilty motherfucking shark who never learns.

 

 

***  
Man flu  
***

 

Tim grips the sink with both his hands, looking in the mirror.

They come back together from the studio to Tim's place, Ginger reading a book on the couch, while Tim lies on the floor, his arms thrown open above his head, legs spread wide, like he is a victim of a satanic ritual, only a smoking one.

They go to bed together maybe an hour later, Ginger letting his damn tender tentacles loose on him once again.

He starts fidgeting maybe an hour after that.

Then he starts coughing.

 

"He's not coming, Brian," Tim says, pressing the phone to his ear, covering his eyes with his other hand. "No, not later. Like at all. Not coming at all. Why the fuck do you need me? You don't need me. Well, he is not fucking coming, is he? Yeah, right. You too. You too."

Ginger groans from the bed.

 

"John, I'm going to fucking vomit," he whispers into the phone, sitting on the bathroom floor. "Fuck off. I am not strong. I am weak. Feeble. Puny. I am in snot fucking hell here. Yes. Save me. Please."

 

Tim shoves the last piece of toast into his mouth quickly, swallowing without chewing, pours water into the glass and goes back to the bedroom.

He sits on the bed, Ginger curled up in the middle of it, one leg poking out of the pile of blankets, smelling of sweat and bile and pills, Tim bending over him.

"You've got to drink. Ginj. Ginj. Are you okay?"

"No," he hears the pile of blankets speaking. "Fuck. I am so sorry."

"Come on. You need to drink."

 

"I am never ever fucking you again," Tim says, quickly shoving the napkin into the plastic bag - black, opaque plastic bag - without looking. Ginger sniffs. "I am not touching you ever again."

"Okay," Ginger says, sound coming out with a twang, and sniffs again.

"Fuck," Tim says and runs into the bathroom.

 

***  
Juicy pussy  
***

 

Tim yawns, looking through his inbox, a cigarette hanging off his lips. His back feels broken.

The letter is titled "LISAS JIUCY PUSSY" and he almost deletes it, thinking that fucking spammers need to learn how to type better and wondering what language "lisas" even is, but then he sees that the letter is actually from John.

Okay, he thinks and downs his coffee.

' _Hello, Tim! These images are being sent to you with full consent of both participating parties. Enjoy_ ,' it says, an empty line between the greeting and the next sentence, and Tim thinks that it could not possibly have been written by John, and that apparently some hackers with impeccable business English hacked into his dumb email, and sure enough, when he scrolls down a bit there is another line saying " _Lisa._ " and then an " _xo_ " with a slash in front of it, which confuses him even more. Then he is presented with a shot of John's fucking face pressed into a pussy.

There are more shots, taken from different angles. Taken by different people. Shots from below and from above. John sticking his tongue out, licking at the clit. John buried deep in the cunt, barely visible behind pubic hair. John's lips smeared in lipstick. John's lips smeared in fluids. John's eyelashes, covered in mascara, his eyes looking down, as if he is shy, his face cupped by a hand with painted nails. John's mouth held open with fingers of that hand. John sucking on them, grinning. John's blissful stupid motherfucking face. John's blissfull stupid motherfucking face resting near the steaming wet pussy spread wide by fingers with painted nails.

Tim comes thirty seconds later, standing half bent, one hand on the mouse, scrolling up and down, another pressing hard into his own cock, just squeezing, not even fucking moving, fire escaping his mouth in thermonuclear blast, bringing death and destruction.

When he is able to think again, he thinks he is going to stay a dead shark forever.

 

He doesn't.

So six or seven hours later he walks around the supermarket, trying to figure out what to cook for dinner.

He gets a call from Ginger.

"Hey," Tim says. "What's up? I am at the store. I keep forgetting, do you eat eggplant?"

"Hey. Sure, yeah. Eggplant is alright. I'm doing push ups," Ginger says, panting a bit.

"Okay, then, eggplant it is."

"I'll try not to be late. I need to have a proper fucking wash, though. I fucking stink."

"No problem. Anyway," he says, his train of thought going into a different direction. "Fucking John."

"Ah?"

"John emailed me pictures of him licking pussy."

"Oh. Fuck. That's kind of... That's a bit of a dick thing to do."

"Oh," Tim says, taking a carton of milk from the fridge awkwardly. "No, it's like John and the owner of the said pussy sent those pictures to me together. Like that lady was fully fucking participating. Jesus."

"Ah. Okay."

"Crazy fucking pictures, you know. Lisa, she's called Lisa, apparently. Sitting on his fucking face. Drooling on his make up. He is wearing fucking make up in there. Like mascara and eyeshadow and shit. Fucking John."

There is a noise at the other end of the line.

"Ginj?"

There is a pause.

"What?"

"What are you fucking doing in there?"

"Uh... Push ups?"

Tim laughs, almost dropping the fucking bread.

"That sounds more like _pull ats_."

"Fuck."

"Are you fucking touching yourself in there?"

"Fuck, Tim. Yeah."

"Do you fucking realize I am in a damn store? I am hanging up."

"Fuck, no. Wait."

Tim has to hurt himself a bit with his hand, releasing the cart, grabbing at his own arm.

'What, you want more stories? I am in a damn _store._ "

"Fuck, Tim."

"Okay. You shit. You do need a fucking wash. Listen up."

"Uh."

"So he's wearing make up and her nails are painted. And she holds his mouth open."

"Fuck."

"Yeah. And he licks her clit. Looking fucking happy, you know. Fucking John. He licks her, and she's oozing on him. Fuck, his whole fucking face is in it."

"Oh my fucking God."

 _Yeah, what about my fucking God_ , Tim thinks, feeling dizzy. _I am in a fucking store._

"And he sucks her fingers. With his genuine fucking lips. Covered in fucking lipstick that is all over the place."

"Fuck, Tim. I'm gonna fucking come."

"Yeah, I fucking came too. At the last one he's just chilling out there, you know. Like he's fulfilled his purpose in life. Next to that pussy. Like open wet hot fucking pussy."

There is a groan on the other end of the line.

Tim squeezes something he was holding in his hand.

He laughs.

"Done, you shit? Wash your shameful stinking fucking body and haul your ass here."

He hangs up, looking down at his own hand, the carton of milk in it, twisted and torn open, his pants ruined, his boots in the middle of a puddle of white liquid.

 

"Wanna see'em?" Tim asks, once Ginger is through the door.

Ginger turns red.

"Fuck. I thought we were having dinner."

"Yeah, well. Fuck it. Come on. You've got to see them."

 

Tim doesn't look at the pictures while Ginger is scrolling through them, because he is looking at Ginger instead. Because he's already studied the fucking pictures and remembers what's happening on every single one of them, and now he needs to know how much it is going to fuck up Ginger.

It turns out, a lot.

Because Ginger scrolls down, looking at them, shivers with his whole body, lets go of the mouse as if it bit him, steps back as if pushed and shakes, looking at the floor.

"Tim," he says.

"I need your fucking cock in my mouth right now," he says.

"Fuck my face," he says.

 

Tim obliges, of course.

Tim sits in the chair, legs spread wide, Ginger on his knees between them, white and red at the same time, choking on his cock, moaning around him, arms hanging down helplessly, hands on the floor, eyes completely black.

 _Aren't you lost in the fucking woods_ , Tim thinks and pulls at his hair, turning his head, making him look at the screen again.

There is nothing more precious to him in the entire fucking universe at that moment than Ginger's miserable haunted fucked up face.

And maybe not even only at that moment.

He feels the fission bomb in his chest going off without any fucking warning, without the countdown even commencing.

"Ginger," he says. "Let's take a picture of you."

Ginger chokes on his cock, shaking, his whole body convulsing, trying to get away and press even closer at the same time, confused, scared and lost forever.

Tim comes into his mouth, pressing hard, not letting go, his hand and his cock and every part of his body radiating heat.

He yanks Ginger's head back by his hair mere seconds later and slaps him across the face.

"Give it to me," he says. "Let's see how many times you'll need. Let's fucking see how long you will fucking last."

And he slaps him again and again, until Ginger comes brief moments later, with an endless wail on his lips, and Tim has no idea how many times his hand landed on Ginger's miserable, beautiful fucking face, because it is not like he was counting.

Because does he fucking look like he knows how to?

 

Ginger collapses on the bed ten minutes later. Tim has to drag him there, put a cigarette between his fucked up lips and do it again, over and over, and luckily he doesn't have to inhale the smoke for him, but it is fucking close.

When he is asleep, Tim just sits there for a while, looking at him, then gets up, fills up a plate and sits at his computer.

He writes a letter to John, eating the eggplant stew with his bare hands, licking his fingers.

"Hello, John and Lisa. Thank you so much for the pictures. I cannot express my gratitude enough. Sadly, I have no juicy material of my own to send you back, because, John, you know who lost his brains at the mere thought. But, John, you know what he did. You know what I did. Here's the resulting beauty. Yours truly, Tim."

And he sends the letter along with the picture of Ginger's sleepy fucked up face on the pillow, taken by him a minute before Ginger collapsed with full consent of both participating parties.

 

 

***  
Nice Tim  
***

 

"I love this tour. I love this place. I love this city. I love you. We should stay here forever," John says, moaning under his hands, head hanging low between his shoulders. "Let's just stay here. We'll jam and then we'll sit here. Deal?"

Tim laughs.

There's a whirlpool in John's room.

There's a whirlpool in John's room because John deserves it.

There's Tim in the whirlpool with John.

There's Tim in the whirlpool with John because John deserves it.

 

Tim sits behind John, running his hands over his beautiful naked spine, rubbing his back and his smooth shoulders, his stiff cock pressed between John's cheeks, John a moaning fucking treasure sent to him by providence.

"Come on," Tim says. "Sit up. Let's do your hair and then I'll fuck you on your hands and knees just like you want me to."

 

***  
That time when Tim runs out of the room on Ginger  
***

 

He whispers things into his ear.

Stupid fucking things.

 

Tim stands in the kitchen, weighing the chicken and the beef in his hands, puffing out the smoke.

He is not in the mood.

He walks out, looks at Ginger sitting there on the couch, studying his own nails.

"Fuck the food. Wanna pound my ass?" Tim asks.

Ginger jumps a bit.

"Yeah. Okay. Yeah," he laughs. "Of course."

 

Of course.

 

Tim somehow ends on his back, not really happy about it, but wrapping his legs around Ginger anyway.

Ginger presses into him, chest to chest, his hair tickling Tim's face. Tim turns his head away a little, Ginger licking his neck.

He turns his head and looks at Ginger's jacket hanging on the back of the chair, Ginger's books and his own books on the shelf lying on top of each other, like he does with Ginger right now, looks at the bag of peanuts on the table that Ginger bought for him yesterday, looks at the piece of paper next to it, the note that says he's going to be late, so no need to wait for him, written in his own hand.

Ginger is hot and heavy on top of him, whispering things into his ear, pulling him close in a tight embrace, tender, familiar, coming into him, shivering and sweaty.

 _Is this a fucking occupation_ , Tim thinks.

 _There should be a law against this_ , Tim thinks.

Ginger sits up and moves away a little. Tim looks up at him. Tim sits up too. Tim feels a large hole forming in his chest, sucking, empty, cold wind going through it.

He looks at Ginger's feverish face. He puts a hand around his own cock. He touches Ginger's lips, pushing in a bit. Ginger lets him.

"Do you want to slap me?" Ginger offers, slurring the words under Tim's fingers, lips soft, wet, breath coming out hot.

 

He doesn't have anything ticking inside to measure the seconds passing by.

 

"Shit, sorry," he says, smile not reaching his eyes. "I am a bit under the weather."

"Okay," Ginger says, his face fracturing a little into a pattern Tim's never seen before.

He brings them water and they sit on the bed, smoking. Tim puts on his jeans and tucks his stiff cock in. He gets up, walks around the room, puts Ginger's jacket on.

"I'll go have a ride," he says.

"Okay," Ginger says, his face turning into sand.

"See you later."

 

He drives around the city for several hours, cigarette hanging from his lower lip, fingers tapping on the steering wheel.

He pulls over and realizes it is a parking lot near John's place.

 _Okay_ , he thinks. _Okay. Why the fuck not._

 

"Oh, hey! What's up?" John smiles at him, standing in the doorway. Tim looks at the leopard print of his shirt and shrugs.

"Wanted to see you," he hurries out.

"Cool. Come on in. Where's Ginj?"

"Says hello. Sends his love. He's buried in a book again," Tim says, tongue feeling dry in his mouth.

John snorts.

 

They hang out on the couch. John plays guitar to him, Tim tapping and nodding to the tune.

"Shit, I am starving," Tim says, and they order pizza, Tim eating and not feeling any taste.

He paints John's face with his make up.

He smokes on the balcony.

He gets a call.

"Hey," he says. "I am at John's."

"Oh," Ginger says.

"Yeah, he wanted to talk guitars."

"Okay," Ginger says, and Tim hears a smile in his voice. The empty hole in his chest expands. "What are you guys gonna do?"

"Hm," Tim hums, then opens the door to the room and shouts: "Hey, John, what are we gonna do?"

"Donno," John shouts back. "Fuck?"

"He says fuck," Tim tells Ginger.

Ginger laughs softly. Tim wants to spit his own tongue out.

"Okay. Have fun."

"See you later."

 

He gets back into the room and gives John a show. He undresses and touches himself, asking John if he likes his cock. John moans and gets on the floor and crawls towards him. He sucks him off standing on his knees, looking up at him, Tim pressing on his head with his palm, gagging him. He comes in his mouth and John comes in his own fist, standing on his knees on the floor.

Tim goes to the bathroom to take a leak.

He looks in the mirror for ten minutes, touching his own lips, cold and unfamiliar under his fingers.

"Jesus," John says, when he comes out. "What took you so long?"

"Took a shit on Brian's lyrics," he says, and John snorts.

 

John kisses him on the mouth in the doorway.

"Bye-bye," he says. "Kiss Ginger for me, will you?"

"Sure", Tim says.

 

He walks out, he gets into the car, he drives and pulls over again, stopping on the next street. On _that_ street.

He sits in the front seat through the rest of the evening, gripping his forehead in both hands.

He sits in the front seat through the rest of the night.

 

At around five he gets out to buy a bottle of coke to pee in it, streets grey, his eyes tired, his chest a barren wasteland.

When he gets out of the shop a young woman asks him how to get to an address.

"Do I fucking look," he says, "Do I fucking look like I know how to get anywhere?"

These exact fucking words. With his genuine fucking mouth.

 

It is almost noon when he pulls over near his own house.

"Ginj," he says. "Wanna go out grab a coffee?"

The room is empty, so he pokes into the bedroom, which is also empty.

"Fuck," he says and then notices the books on the shelf. And they've been fucking rearranged.

He takes the cigarettes out of his pocket, looks at his own hands and then crushes the package with his fist and throws it on the floor.

His mouth is dry.

 

He goes to the kitchen to drink some water.

Ginger sleeps sitting on the chair near the fridge, chicken and beef Tim was weighing in his hands twenty four hours ago are still on the table, lying there in a puddle of water.

Ginger sleeps sitting on the chair near the fridge and he's more dressed than Tim's seen him in ages.  
The top fucking button of his shirt's fastened.

Ginger sleeps sitting on the chair near the fridge, and the moment Tim enters the kitchen he jumps and sleeps no more.

 

Tim stands there, looking at him, clenching his fists.

They both look like shit.

They both, no doubt, feel even worse.

 

"Do you want me to fuck off?" Ginger asks.

Tim tries to say something. He tries to answer so hard.

But his fucking mouth is full of feathers, dust, dry leaves and mold. His mouth is rotting.

He swallows hard.

Ginger starts getting up.

 

 _I am the one who needs to fuck off_ , Tim thinks.

 

He makes several quick steps towards him, pushes him back on the chair and pulls at the collar of his buttoned up shirt.

"Undo it," he spits out.

Ginger looks up at him and blinks, as if blinded by the sun.

"What?"

"Undo your top button," Tim says.

There is a pause that stretches for approximately fourteen billion years.

Then Ginger gulps and does what he's told.

 

Tim shudders and immediately puts his hand on Ginger's throat, his skin feeling hot and tender under his fingers.

He holds it there, feeling Ginger's fucking heart beating.

It takes some time, but he finally hears another beat.

 _There won't be any nuclear fucking proliferation_ , Tim thinks and pulls Ginger close, pressing hard on his head, hair soft underneath his fingers, his hand radiating heat and energy.

 

"I am the worst fucking shark," he says.

 

***  
Thirty two minus one  
***

 

"Dude. Go to a fucking dentist," Tim says into the phone.

"Can you go with me?" John asks.

"Why?"

John's silent for a moment.

"Because otherwise I won't go."

"Is this a civil uprising? I'm going to impose a reign of terror on you and you know it."

John snorts and then cries out in pain.

"Fuck. Tim, it fucking hurts."

"Well, as I said..."

"And I said come with me."

"What do you need me there for?"

"Please."

"Look, you can keep begging all you want. I mean, I might jerk off to it. But you'll have to actually explain what's going on if you want me to go with you to a fucking dentist."

"I am fucking afraid of dentists, okay? That's what's going on."

Tim sighs.

"Are you serious?"

"Yeah. They hurt people. I don't like getting hurt."

Tim snorts.

"John, you've got two motherfucking arms covered in ink. That was delivered there by motherfucking needles. Not to mention that I hurt you all the time. Sometimes even around the same area the dentist would be."

"Fuck off. Ink is sexy. You are sexy. That's hot oral fucking. This is horrible oral rape that I have to pay for."

Tim laughs.

"How old are you again?"

"Tim. I need your fucking moral support."

"Meh. If you need anything moral, go talk to Ginger. I am above that. By the way, why don't you go with Ginger. He doesn't know how to say no."

"Brian's got him."

"Fuck. Pogo?"

"Yeah, maybe I also need to tie a thread to the doorknob and pull at it? Besides, I am not fucking Pogo. Fuck, Tim. I suck your cock and you won't go to the dentist with me?"

Tim takes a toothpick out of his mouth and prods his arm with it. His conscience is nowhere to be found.

"Okay. Whiny little bastard."

 

So he takes John to the dentist, but they won't let him come in and sit near him and hold his fucking hand.  
He catches the last glimpse of John's big terrified eyes on his pretty face and then the door is closed. Tim considers starting a revolution for a moment, but then just sits in the chair in the corridor.

John is delivered into his arms five minutes later, white as a sheet and almost fainting.

"They've pulled my fucking tooth out," he says.

"Your friend needs to learn some discipline," the dentist tells Tim.

"I'll see to that," Tim nods, supressing a grin.

 

Later that day Tim tells John to open his mouth and shoves a finger inside, rubbing at the empty place where John's wisdom tooth previosly was.

"Ginj," he says. "Check this out."

He holds John's mouth open while Ginger carefully touches the insides of it.

"You sick fucks," John manages and pushes both their hands away. Then he opens his mouth again and touches the sore spot himself.

 

Tim watches Ginger sucking John off. _To hell with fucking discipline_ , he thinks. _John can do whatever he wants. To hell with fucking dentists_ , he thinks. _I decide around here._

 

 

***  
Finish line  
***

 

Tim rides him late one night, they are both a bit drunk, because they are on tour, because they never learn.

He guides Ginger's big, hot, awesome cock into his hole, grinds on it, Ginger looking up at him with an open mouth and such fucking awe, that Tim really wonders if it is always like a first time to him. If he has any long term memory. If he understands that he probably has Tim's ass as often as he eats pizza, and what is there to be in awe about pizza.

He isn't wondering for long, though. Because he has long term memory, and once he goes there, he finds every instance of being with Ginger, and every instance of being with Ginger makes his blood boil, the fission in his chest starting, his eyes fixed on Ginger's sweaty, broken, miserable face.

"Do you have any fucking idea how much I want to hurt you?" he says that very instant, not entirely in control of himself.

Ginger gasps, his fists clenching on the sheets where he's been keeping them the whole time, not daring to touch.

"You can," he says. "Anything you want."

Tim realizes that very moment that he's forever staying undone under him and nothing will ever change it.

He feels himself spiral into the center of the fucking sun.

"Yeah?" he asks.

"Yeah. Fuck, yes. Just don't stop, okay? Just fuck me. Just don't go. Just stay. Fuck. Fuck, Tim," Ginger gives him this string of words and Tim feels how it goes around both of their necks.

"I'm gonna fucking slap you," he says.

"Yeah," Ginger says, shaking under him.

Tim slaps him once and then again, and before, before that would have been enough, that would have been the absolute limit, unless Tim was specifically aiming for reckless, but not this time.

"I am gonna do it again," he says.

"Yeah, I know," Ginger says, smiling at him.

Fucking _smiling_ at him.

"I'm gonna do it until you come. I'm not gonna stop. I'm gonna do it all the fucking time. Do you fucking understand me?" he asks, grinding on Ginger's cock, his whole body going tense.

"Yeah. Yes, I do. Fuck, Tim. You can. Okay? You can."

And with that Tim slaps him once more. With that he doesn't stop. And he doesn't count. He knows it is a lot. He grinds down on him and slaps him every other time he does it. He slaps him not until Ginger starts fucking crying. He slaps him until Ginger comes, Tim following him brief two or three seconds later, twisting his cock so hard it strains his hand.

 _Aren't we in a fucking noose_ , he thinks, looking at Ginger's wet, red, absolutely ruined face.

_Aren't we going to swing on the gallows, suspended in thin air._

 

"Are you okay?" Ginger asks him a bit later.

Tim laughs, falling on top of him and pulling him close.

"No. Of course I am not fucking okay. I am out of my fucking mind. Ginj. Fuck."

"I..." Ginger starts.

"What the fuck did you go and tell me all of that for?"

 _What the fuck did I listen to you for_ , Tim thinks.

"Sorry," Ginger says.

"Sorry?" Tim repeats, gritting his teeth. "Fuck, Ginj. I made you fucking _cry_. I don't even know how many times I slapped you."

"Thirteen," Ginger says.

"Shut up. Fucking hell. Ginj. I hate myself for saying this. But. I am going to do that again."

"It's okay. I don't mind. I fucking—"

"I know. Damn," Tim says, sitting up and looking down at him. "Jesus, I am a horrifying monster. Do you want to smoke?"

"Yeah. Yes. I want to smoke."

 

So they smoke, and when they wake up in the morning Tim has a profound realization that washes over him like a waterfall of ice.

"Fuck, Ginj. John's so going to kill me," he says, looking at Ginger's beaten face.

"Probably not."

"Most definitely yes. Fuck, you do realize we are fucking playing tonight?"

 

And that is all true. That is all true, and John comes into the room a few hours later and then goes out right away, and Tim thinks that is fucking worse, Tim thinks he'd prefer to be dead, he'd prefer to lie a dead gutted miserable shark and rot on the sand under the merciless sun, he'd prefer anything over John running out of the fucking room, and Ginger sits beside him with his hands over his shattered mouth, going into shock.

But John comes back. John comes back with wet towels and lip balm and hand cream and a big bag of make up and sits in front of Ginger, repairing what Tim has broken, even though Tim thinks there is no hope anymore, they're past that point and broken things are going to stay just that. Then John draws the biggest motherfucking mouth in history on Ginger's beaten face, grabs Tim by the arm, makes him sit next to Ginger on the bed and towers over both of them.

"We need to talk," he says. "Are you out of your goddamn mind?"

And when Tim makes an attempt to answer that it turns out he was mainly asking Ginger, because Tim being a horrid fucking creature is well established and doesn't need confirmation.

Ginger shrugs.

"No. I just... You know. You both fucking know, okay?"

And Tim prays for the grace of death.

"Okay," John says. "You sick fucks. Do you really need fucking supervision? Can't I leave you alone in the room?"

Ginger shrugs again.

"It's alright. I told Tim he could do that."

"I know. I know you did. Fuck. Tim."

"Yeah?" Tim asks, still somehow alive.

"Just... Just don't fucking hurt him, okay? Don't hurt Ginger."

Tim licks his lips. Ginger shivers. John clenches his fists.

 _I will never fucking hurt him_ , Tim thinks.

"Okay," he says. "I won't."

 

And they play their show with Ginger wearing the biggest motherfucking mouth in history painted on his beaten face by John.

And that concert doesn't even suck.

 

And not all that was said or thought that day turns out to be true.

Because there is a day, that comes later, and yet still comes, when Tim looks at Ginger and has this big empty hole in his chest instead of his usual uncontainable nuclear disaster.

Because he hurts him.

Because he hurts him and by that hurts John too.

There are other days before and after those, that are blissful days, his fission bomb firmly in its place, his hand holding Ginger's stupid scared fucking fingers, John pressed into him, his partner in crime, and all three of them just a pile of limbs. He still hates himself sometimes, his long term memory intact, thinking who fucking asked him to get up, to go out of the bus, to kick the rock with his boot and to do all those unspeakable things. And of course nobody did.

But when he hates himself sometimes there're four hands around him, holding him and helping him and letting him go, letting him fall, suspending him in the thin fucking air.

 

What turns out to be true, and not much of a surprise, of course, is that he does slap Ginger all the time and he doesn't stop. And every time he does it, Ginger looking back at him, scared and in awe and sometimes even crying, though Tim tries really hard to do the fucking math, John not there with them or just next to them, not providing much of above mentioned supervision, just whining on the bed instead, every time he does it, the terrible, wretched thing inside his chest purrs and goes off, and it is beautiful, and it is the absolute end of him.

 

 

***  
Healthy life style  
***

 

Tim shares the last cigarette with Ginger, both of them standing in the doorway, leaning on the frame against each other, passing it from one another after a drag, John giggling at them, Tim feeling his shoulders ache, sinking deep to the bottom of the ocean of his shitty mood, Ginger staring at his lips and being Ginger.

Then they go away, and Tim closes the door, separating himself from the rest of the world, sitting there with his stiff shoulders and jittery hands, playing the lines over and over again, adding and deleting effects, then deleting the whole thing and throwing stuff on the floor, and so on, and that all without having any cigarettes, that all with only hope that somebody will give him a helping fucking hand.

In the end those who could end up holding their hands in one another's at a completely different location, calling him, talking in their distant voices, and then letting him go, letting him sink back to the bottom of the fucking ocean.

Where there're no cigarettes.

 

When in the morning Ginger comes back and tries to kiss him with his chapped lips, because John asked him to send his love and admiration, and not that Tim needed Ginger telling him that, smelling John all over him, when he tries that, Tim says it can wait.

He says it can wait and pulls three cigarettes out of Ginger's package and shoves them all into his mouth, Ginger watching him and saying that he's going to die before them and then what are they going to do, and Tim puffing out the smoke.

"Donno," he says. "Be happy?"

 

_Please be fucking happy._

 

 

***  
Skill requires practice  
***

 

"And that, John William Lowery, is how an expert does it," Tim delivers the line, grinning, panting, flapping like a fucking flag, a ball of helpless nuclear gas suspended in thin air.

"F-fuck," he hears from behind, and then John's angry hand pushes on his nape hard, making him fall, making him topple over, making him land on steaming quivering miserable Ginger mess beneath him. "You're so getting fucked right now. You're getting fucking ruined."

 

Which is not untrue.

 

"Ginj, fucking hell. I thought my eyes would bleed. How did you even manage to do that that time? Fuck," Tim hears John whispering, barely present, his face pressed into the pillow, limbs spread wide. "That fucking fucking fucking _hole._ "

The bed shakes a bit.

"I don't fucking know. Don't fucking know. Fuck. He asked, you know. He told me to do that, so..." Tim hears Ginger's whisper.

The bed shakes a bit again.

The stupid moaning bastards kiss.

"Fucking hell. I'm so sorry. We're never doing this again," John says.

Ginger laughs.

"Yeah... Like we get to decide."

 

Tim smiles, baring his teeth.

Brilliant wicked cunning fucking shark.

 

***  
Solitude  
***

 

When John tells them he is thinking about leaving the band and going away, after another explosive argument with Brian, and tells it like he means it, all three of them stop breathing for ten days.

And God knows, Tim loves Brian the way only one raging monster can love another, but.  
They don't breathe for ten fucking days, both Tim and Ginger just dead rotting carcasses on the sand under the merciless sun, not even under the same sun, because they don't talk to each other all that time, and they don't talk to John, each one of them separated and torn apart.

John tells them later that he couldn't even play.

That he was crying.

 

They don't breathe for ten fucking days apart from each other, and the day the three of them finally meet and sit on the bench, eating doughnuts out of a box, it feels like being whole again.

 

***  
Open conversation  
***

 

"By the way," John says, swinging his feet in the air, licking sugar off Ginger's palm and looking thoroughly fucked, which he most definitely is. "How did you guys even start fucking? You never told me."

Tim puffs out the smoke. Ginger blushes a bit.

"I mean, I can imagine me and Ginj happening," John says.

 _Yeah, after apporximately fourteen billion years of sexual frustration and nuts_ , Tim thinks.

"And I can also imagine you getting your dirty hands on me," John continues, looking at Tim. Tim smirks at him, showing his teeth. Ginger gulps.

"But you two are an unlikely pair. I mean, it is fucking hot, but," John finishes his long ass explanation.

"I uh..." Ginger says in a breathy voice. "I had a hard on and he asked me to do things."

Tim puts the cigarette he's been smoking into his mouth.

"I was angry and awake and had nothing better to do," he says, chuckling.

 

***  
Confessions  
***

 

When Tim comes home Ginger is sitting on the couch, his face in a book, wearing a hoodie and covered in blankets up to the waist.

"What's with all of that?" He asks, lighting up a cigarette.

"Out of clean pants," Ginger says, without lifting his head.

"I see a pair of perfectly clean pants on the chair right there," Tim says, pointing at the chair by the window.

"Those are my outside pants."

"Fuck. Outside pants. Okay. Do as you please. You've eaten?"

"Ah?"

_Book fucking worm._

"I am saying, are you hungry?"

"Yeah. Donno. Probably."

Tim laughs. Ginger finally raises his head.

"Sorry, I am just... Can I just finish this?"

"Okay. I'll put something in your mouth and you'll just have to chew, deal?"

"Yeah. Thank you. Okay."

 

Tim cooks dinner for himself, whistling one of John's stupid country tunes, the cigarette hanging off his lips, then makes a sandwich for Ginger, cringing, just cutting stuff into fat slices.

He sits with him on the couch, eats his pasta and stuffs Ginger's face with pieces of the sandwich, Ginger's eyes never leaving the page he's on, Tim's eyes, on the other hand, are on his mouth, because he just cannot help himself.

Then he puts away the plates and takes Ginger's filthy hoodie off him, turns on the TV and plays a stupid game with a remote control, Ginger sitting there with his book, covered in what seems to be at least seven blankets, Tim's free hand finding a way in the labirint and landing on Ginger's naked thigh, and it feels like jumping into a pool of warm milk.

  
They sit like that, Tim drawing lines on Ginger's soft skin, trying to score points and failing like a loser and wondering how John would do, Ginger in a deep literary dive - or at least Tim thinks he is - until Tim hears a loud thud of something heavy landing on the floor.

"I fucking hate you," Ginger says.

Tim scores a point and the room is momentarily filled with the sound of the dumb victory tune.

"The fuck? I feed you, I let you read your stupid book, and now you hate me?" he says, starting a new level.

Ginger laughs softly.

"I haven't read a single fucking line over the last fifteen fucking minutes."

"Why?" Tim asks, pressing on the buttons furiously.

"Fuck. Because you've been touching me and now I am fucking hard?" Ginger asks, his voice shaking a bit.

"Huh?"

"Yeah, exactly. Turn this shit off."

Tim stops the game, turns his face to Ginger and finds him red and sweaty and dishevelled.

"Wow."

"I fucking hate you. Why are you so hot? Just your fucking hand on my leg, while you are playing a motherfucking game, and now I have to suffer a massive boner? And you don't even notice doing that to me. Fucking cool."

He seems somewhat distressed.

And really aroused.

"Well, I've noticed now. Wanna stop bragging and show me?" Tim asks, sliding one arm around Ginger's shoulders.

"What?"

Tim pulls at the blankets.

"Show me what you've got."

Ginger shivers and then somehow manages to throw all the seven blankets off in one motion.

A giant wave of heat lands on Tim's face.

"Fuck," he says. "No offence to John, you know, but you've got the best fucking cock I've ever seen in my life."

Ginger laughs.

"Still hate me?"

"Donno. Depends on what you are going to do. Are you going to touch me?"

 _Ginger's fucking questions_ , Tim thinks.

 _This is definitely going to be the end of me one day_ , he thinks.

"Mm... Yeah. But not your damn awesome cock, though," he says, feeling the countdown in his chest starting. "Not for now, anyway."

He smiles, baring his teeth, Ginger glancing at him sideways.

"Yeah, I still fucking hate you."

Tim laughs.

"You," he says, smelling blood, "Are going to tell me exactly what you like. And I am going to do that to you."

Ginger exhales loudly.

"You are going to tell me everything."

"Fuck, Tim. I don't—"

"You will. Because if you won't, I will just touch you from head to toe centimeter after centimeter and ask my own questions and we will sit here till it is next fucking week."

Ginger shivers. Tim puts his hand on the back of his neck, pulling at his hair a bit, scraping his scalp.

"Fuck. And you? I mean..."

"Oh, I am fine. I am in the mood for torture, you know."

Ginger moans. Tim laughs at him, running his fingers through his hair.

"Okay, okay. I uh... I like what you're doing now. With my hair. I like it when you touch my hair."

Tim smirks.

"Going with a safe option? Okay," he says, pushing Ginger's head down a bit, pressing with his fingers on his neck, twisting his hair, pulling, at first slightly, then yanking his head up.

"Oh."

"What?"

"That."

"What that?"

"Do you really need me to fucking say it?"

"No," Tim answers, turning his head towards him, Ginger looking at him, licking his lips. "But you will."

"Fuck, Tim," he blurts out. "Okay. Fuck you. I like it when you pull my hair. Are you fucking pleased now?"

Tim shrugs.

"I am still waiting for some real content here," he says.

Ginger briefly closes his eyes, bracing himself. Tim feels nuclear fluttering in his chest.

"I like it when you touch my lips," he hurries out in one go.

"Hm," Tim says, moving closer to him. "How do you like it?"

"Fuck."

"I am listening."

He looks at Ginger's throat and fuck, does he want to bite it.

"When I suck you off. Fuck, Tim. I like it when you touch my lips with your damn fucking cock inside my mouth, okay?"

Tim laughs.

"Cool. I am going to do horrible things to you, you know?"

"Fuck. I know. I hate you."

"Open up."

Ginger swallows, his throat twitching.

"Come on. Turn your head, look at me and open your mouth. Your mouth is open when you suck me, right?"

"Shit," Ginger says and then slowly complies.

Tim is not sure he has legs at this point. He is not sure there isn't just a giant ball of fire all the way down from his chest.

"Wider," he says.

And Ginger opens his mouth and looks at him.

Tim smirks and licks his fingers.

"Okay, here we go," he says and puts his wet thumb on Ginger's lower lip, then moves it, going full circle.

"Oh my fucking God," Ginger says, when he pulls away.

Tim laughs.

"You are so fucking soft," he says, and then pushes his head down a little. "Come on, let's look at how your awesome cock is doing down there."

And it turns out, Ginger's awesome cock is having a time of its life.

Unlike Ginger, who is flapping helplessly like a flag in the wind, surrenderring.

"Tim."

"Again. We're going to do it again. Open your mouth and look at me."

"Fuck."

"Do it."

And Ginger does. And Tim licks his fingers again and touches his lips, going in a circle, then once more, then pulling slightly, brushing the teeth.

Ginger shakes uncontrollably. Tim laughs.

"Okay," he says. "You've got me convinced. You do like it when I touch your goddamn lips."

"Fuck, Tim."

"Yeah. Again."

Ginger whines, fidgeting on the couch. Tim tightens the grip of his fingers in his hair.

"I said I was in the mood for torture, okay? So fucking roll with it."

"Fuck, Tim. You know I am not very good at this."

"You're fucking awesome at this. You're fucking hot. Now open your damn mouth, and I'll touch your lips."

 

Magical, wonderfull things happen. Tim's whole body is burning, being destroyed by fire, his hand in Ginger's hair, pulling his head up, making him look at him, his mouth open and wet, Tim following the outline of his lips with his fingers. With every one of his damn fingers. One by one.

"No, no, no," he says. "Don't close your eyes. I am so seeing all of your miserable face."

He actually fears for a moment Ginger is going to choke on his own breath.

But when he doesn't and instead opens his eyes, Tim touches and pulls at his lips a bit more.

"Alright," he says. "I think I have a full understanding now."

He smirks. Ginger clenches his fists.

"Tell me something else. What else do you like? What do you like when you fuck with John?"

Ginger whines. Tim laughs.

"You know, I really don't get it. You always run your mouth when we fuck. Telling John how amazing he is. Telling me how amazing I am. What's the problem now? Tell me how amazing you are."

"Jesus," Ginger gasps out. "I really fucking think that if you could stick your hand inside my chest without actually killing me, you would."

 _And you are not wrong_ , Tim thinks and smiles.

"Come on. Tell me something I don't know."

"I uh... I like it when John touches my nipples."

_Oh._

_Oh._

_Wow._

"Okay, that's new. What? John touches your nipples? Since when?"

Ginger manages a laugh.

"Since like forever. His fucking fingers. Fucking everywhere."

Tim smirks.

"I think I know what you're talking about," he laughs too. "I am pretty sure he had his finger up my fucking nose at one point."

"Fuck. Yeah. That. Everywhere."

"Okay," Tim says. "Back to nipples. Why wasn't I fucking informed?"

Ginger laughs at that too.

"I uh... I didn't think you were interested, you know. You usually go for lower deparments. Fuck, what am I even saying?"

"Hot shit. And thank you for that. So, how does he touch your nipples?"

"Fuck."

"Yeah?"

"When he sucks me. Fuck, Tim. This is too..."

"This is fine. This is exactly what we're doing. Anything else I need to know?"

"Fuck. Sometimes... Sometimes I touch them myself."

Tim feels things crushing inside his chest.

 _Death_ , he thinks.

 _Destruction_ , he thinks.

"Okay. I like the sound of it. Fuck, do I like the sound of it. Do it."

"What?"

"Touch your fucking nipples like you do with John. And we're going to look. We're going to look at your awesome fucking cock and at how you touch yourself. Okay? Okay. Just like I said. Do it. Now," Tim delivers the speech in one go.

"I... Fuck, Tim..."

"You are doing it. You are fucking doing it. Or we're staying here forever. I'll just stick my fingers down your throat and never ever let you come."

"Fuck."

Ginger lifts his hands off the couch. Fucking shaking hands. They land on his chest. Then he runs his thumbs over his nipples.

"Fuck," Tim spits out. "Ginj. I am going to fucking explode. Aren't you going to fucking explode? Don't you dare stop. Fuck. That's hot. Fuck, you were doing it with John all along. With fucking _John._ "

"Tim."

"Look at your fucking cock," Tim says, pushing his head down. "Fucking look at it. It twitches when you touch your nipples."

Ginger shudders at his words, mouth falling agape, quivering, like a fucking squid in a frying pan. _With black pepper, garlic and a pinch of salt_ , Tim thinks.

"Tim, I..."

"Keep doing it. Keep fucking doing it. You are going to tell me everything. Every single thing. And I am going to do it all to you. Until you're fucking undone. Okay? Until you're fucking nothing."

"I..."

Tim looks at his trembling body, his cock up in the air, thumbs brushing his nipples, his fucking convulsing throat, his damn stupid face that Tim holds firmly turned in the right direction with his hand.

 _Maybe I am going to be fucking undone_ , Tim thinks.

"Yeah," Ginger says. "Okay? Yes. Yes. Fuck. Tim."

"Fuck, I want to hurt you," Tim says through gritted teeth.

"Okay. Fuck. Hurt me."

A sudden lightning passes through Tim's mind and he shakes a bit himself, feeling as if he is a fucking rock shattering in an earthquake.

"No," he says. "You do it. Hurt yourself. Hurt your awesome sensitive fucking nipples you've been hiding from me with fucking John. Fucking _John._ "

Ginger has a seizure.

A hot, sexy, energy radiating mess of a seizure.

Then he does it, and yes, it is Tim who's getting undone.

"Fucking hell," he says and gets up. "Don't move. Don't you dare fucking move."

 

He runs into the bathroom as if his life depended on it. He opens the tap and shoves his head under cold water. He slaps everything he can reach, bending over: thighs, cock, stomach. He slaps hard. He slaps himself that hard that it actually isn't erotic at all. He wishes he could punch himself in the face. He wishes he could break his own fucking arm.

It helps a tiny little bit.

 

When he comes back into the room Ginger is exactly in the same position, lying there in a pile of blankets, steaming hot, cock, hands, legs, miserable fucking face, everything.

"Okay," Tim says, hugging himself by the shoulders and shaking. "Okay, you motherfucker. What else?"

"Tim."

"Tell me."

"I am gonna fucking come. I am gonna fucking come just like that."

"No. Tell me."

"My fucking feet, okay? When you touch my goddamn feet. When you lick them. Happy now? Just don't—"

Tim crosses the room, falls on his knees and lifts Ginger's foot off the floor.

"Look at me. Look at your fucking cock. You sweaty, shaking, pathetic pile of kinky shit."

Ginger chokes on his own breath. Tim sucks his toes into his mouth. _I'm going to fucking come_ , he thinks. _We're both going to fucking come because of a goddamn conversation._

Ginger moans with open mouth, his body arching on the couch, sliding down, his hair a sweaty mess, face white, hands shaking, hanging off the couch, suspended in fucking air. He looks at Tim. He looks at Tim and at his own cock, eyes wide, mouth open and wet, he looks at himself just like Tim told him.

Tim licks between his toes and thinks that if this is how he's going to die, then he's going to fucking cheer. He is going to fucking beg to die like this.

"Fuck, Tim. Tim. What are you doing? Oh my fucking God. I'm gonna come right now. What the fuck are you doing to me?"

 _I am doing to you_ , Tim thinks. _I._

"I fucking hate you."

Tim lets his foot fall out of his mouth, grabs both of his legs and lifts them, bending his knees, folding him almost in half.

"Tell me about your fucking hole," he says. "Hold your damn legs open and tell me."

"Tim, I..."

"Yes, you will. You know you will. I know you will. Tell me what you want me to do to your fucking ass."

"Fuck. I... I want your fingers. I want your dry fucking fingers. I want you to hurt me."

 

Tim feels his own throat collapsing. His chest aches, and he cannot fucking breathe.

He presses his knuckles against Ginger's ass and rubs.

He sees his muscles clench.

He sees fucking red.

His mouth tastes of blood.

He feels fucking happy. He feels so fucking happy.

 

"Give me your shithole. Tell me how much you like me fucking into you. Fucking into your shit. How much you like my cock in your dirty fucking crap."

Ginger's face smashes into little pieces.

Beyond fucking repair.

Beyond any hope.

 _There is nobody here you can call for help_ , Tim thinks. _I am going to fucking chew you and swallow you whole. And you are going to be fucking delighted about it_ , he thinks.

 

"Cannot fucking talk, ha?" he asks, rubbing at his hole with dry fingers, pushing in. "I know you want to. I know you would. Open your mouth for me. Open it. I'm going to tell you what you fucking want. You want me to eat you out. You want me to stick my fingers up your dirty disgusting shithole. You want them to be covered in your filthy crap."

 _He's gonna lose his fucking mind right now_ , Tim thinks. _Fucking Ginger is going to have a seizure and die. We're both going to die here._

"Look at me. Look at your cock. You fucking like it. You fucking like what I am saying to you. You want me to fuck the shit out of you. You want to come on my cock. You want to come while I fuck your crap. You want me to pull out and make you fucking suck it."

He presses his dry fingers as hard as he can into Ginger's ass and puts his own babbling mouth on the best cock he's ever seen in his entire life.

 _I am going to fucking eat you and nobody will know_ , he thinks. _Nobody will help you._

Ginger comes into his mouth, his ass clenching under Tim's dry fingers, his shattered body arching up, head lolling back, his white throat exposed.

 

Ginger slides off the couch, as if he is made of some sort of liquid. He whines, trying to grab at Tim with his helpless scared stupid fucking hands.

"Fuck, it is disgusting. What the fuck are you even doing to me? Fuck, Tim. Let me touch you," he says, mumbling. Tim shifts his body, Ginger's hand landing onto his cock. "You fucking told me I want you to fuck my shit. Like my actual shit. It is fucking disgusting." His voice is breaking, and Tim understands he is going to cry. His hand squeezes his cock. _I am going to come and die_ , Tim thinks. _Ginger is going to kill me, and I am going to be happy about it_ , he thinks. "Tim. Fuck. I want you to come. You are... I fucking love you so much, Tim. I fucking love you, do you understand that?" Ginger says, his face breaking into something horrible and alien, he shuts his eyes tight, and tears, genuine fucking tears run down his miserable stupid face.

Tim comes in his pants, Ginger's hand pressing into him.

He isn't sure he has a body.

He is just a giant ball of fire and nuclear fucking gas.

He falls on top of Ginger, heavy and burning hot, puts his arms around him and presses into him, his face touching the floor, Ginger's ragged breath in his ear.

"I love you," Ginger says and laughs.

 _I know_ , Tim thinks, _I fucking know._

 _What the fuck can I even do about it_ , he thinks.

"I love hurting you," Tim says."I love it that you let me."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says and hugs him too. "Just don't go, okay? Don't go anywhere."

 

 _And where could I go_ , Tim thinks.

 _Do I fucking look_ , he thinks, _like I know how to get anywhere?_

 

 

***  
Test trials  
***

 

"Tim. Are you at the studio or something?" John asks, sounding irritated.

"Nope," Tim says, yawning. "I am at home."

"I sent you an email. Why haven't you checked your bloody email yet?"

 _Because it is ten in the morning and I just want to sit here, smoke and scratch my balls_ , Tim thinks.

"Give me a minute. I am going to check my bloody email. What, with you asking so nicely."

He listens to John panting like an angry cute little bull, while turning on his computer and opening the page. And sure enough, there is a letter from John in his inbox that says "This is so hot."

He clicks on it. There are several pictures in there with busty anime ladies being tied up.

"Have you seen it yet?" John demands.

"Yeah," Tim says, yawning again.

"This is hot."

"John. It is a fucking cartoon."

"Fuck off, it is hot."

"Okay, like maybe that lady with purple hair is. At least she looks old enough to know what she is doing."

"Don't insult my jerk off material."

"Wouldn't dream of it. Pump away. Have all the cartoon ladies you want. Is that all you called for?" Tim scratches his balls and gets up to pour some coffee down his throat.

"No. Of course not. It is fucking hot. Can we do it?"

_Oh._

_That's better_ , Tim thinks.

 _Magic_ , Tim thinks.

"What, do you mean the tying up?"

"Yeah. _Shibari_."

"Sure. You'll have to specify though. There're three of us and math tells us—"

"I want you to tie me up, okay?" John says, cutting him off.

"Alright," Tim responds, grinning. "I'll have to do some research though. When do you want me to do it?"

"Like, today? Like fucking now?"

Tim laughs.

"Kinky motherfucker. I have some things I need to deal with first. Then I will read about your... _shibari_ stuff, okay? Oh, and we'll need the rope, right? Fuck. Do you by any chance happen to have some rope?"

"Why would I have rope in my house?"

"Fuck. I don't think Ginger has any either. If he did it would have already migrated to my fucking place anyway. Where do I even get rope? John. Help me out. Don't leave me hanging."

"How would I know? Figure it out. This is fucking hot. You're so tying me up."

 

Tim deals with his things.

Tim remembers there should be some rope at the studio, but then realizes it is probably old and dirty and not hot at all.

He ends up calling Brian.

Of course.

"Hey, dude. Where do I get rope?"

"Huh?"

"Rope. For tying things up. Where do I get it?"

"Oh," Brian says and Tim sees him nodding like a fucking pope in his head. "What kind of things are we talking about? Like construction or something?"

"No. Like..." Tim tries to think of something that would resemble a human body without giving himself away. _Mannequins_ , he thinks. _A human sized Bavarian sausage_ , he thinks. _A dumb fucking shark being lost at the bottom of the ocean_ , he thinks. "Uh. Like a..."

Brian snorts.

"You dirty whore. What are you up to?"

_Sure._

_Sure_ , Tim thinks.

_LIke I am going to tell you._

"Okay," he says. "Yeah. Rope for tying up people. Where do I get it?"

Brian laughs.

"No, first you've got to tell me who's getting tied up."

_Sure._

_Sure_ , Tim thinks.

_Like I am breathing a single word of it to you._

"That's kind of none of your fucking business," he says.

_Like I am going to let you sink your fucking teeth into this._

_Like I do not have pefectly good teeth of my own._

Brian scoffs.

"When did you become such a prude? I just mean: are you getting tied up or somebody else? Because if it is you I need to fucking know. I am going to beat off to that and write some lyrics about it. Okay?"

Tim snorts.

"No, not me. Now tell me where do I get the fucking rope?"

Brian does.

"You're buying me cocaine," Brian says and hangs up.

 

John jumps several times and claps his hands when Tim gets to his place with rope hanging from his shoulder and a cigarette hanging from his lips.

Fucking jumps and claps. With his genuine fucking feet and his genuine fucking hands.

"God, I love you so much!" he shouts, grabbing Tim by the arms for a second and then running back into the room. "Come on. Let's get me all tied up and whining."

 _I should have never opened my mouth_ , Tim thinks. _I should have never opened my damn mouth and I should never have told John what is going on in my damn head. In my damn stupid shark head._

 

Tim gets John all tied up and whining.

He doesn't even fuck up once dealing with the rope.

"Hot," John says, panting. "Suck me off."

 

Tim obliges.

Tim sucks John off, and for some time it is going perfect.

 _Cartoon fucking magic_ , Tim thinks.

Then John's stupid cock goes limp in his mouth.

In his motherfucking _mouth_.

 

John starts giggling.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Tim asks, lifting his head and looking up at him. "What even is that? I am going to fucking chew you and spit you out, you know. How do you even dare?"

"Fuck, Tim," John says, still giggling. "Sorry. Fuck. You're so going to kill me."

"Yes. What is the fucking matter?"

"I uh... I... Okay. I wrote this tune the other day. And now I had an idea, while you were at it. You know, to add. And I just fucking can't. I need to play it."

Tim slaps himself across the face.

Hard.

 _I am so just leaving you lying here_ , he thinks.

"Tim. Please, don't fucking leave me here, okay? Just don't leave me. God. Sorry. Untie me, okay? I'll beg for forgiveness later. I'll beg you just like you like it. I'll beg you forever, okay?"

 

It is only after Tim has a cigarette on the balcony that he unties John.

"You dumb motherfucker," he says.

"Yeah," John answers. "Wanna listen to my tune?"

So Tim listens to his tune.

Which is an awesome fucking tune, of course.

Tim listens to John play his tune, both of them sitting on the bed naked next to each other, their cocks out and everything.

"See?" John asks.

Tim nods.

"Wanna try?"

"What?"

"Wanna play it?" John asks.

Tim snorts.

"Yeah, no, I am not doing that."

John squints at him.

"Stop the worship. That is not your department. Come on. You're in the same fucking band. You can do it."

Tim looks at him with the best blond scum expression he has on offer.

"That is not what I am saying. Obviously. I just mean... I mean, we have different ideas of what fun means, you and I. So all the while you were jerking off your guitar in the basement I was partying and putting various things in my various orifices."

John snorts.

"So?" he asks.

"So skill requires practice. I practice different motherfucking skills."

"Okay," John says. "But still. Come on. I want you to try it. I'll hold your fucking fingers. It is going to be sexy."

So Tim plays John's tune after John plays it holding Tim's fingers first.

It is sexy.

"Let's jam," John says, and Tim gets up and takes another guitar from his stash, and they jam, sitting next to each other on the bed, naked, their cocks out and everything.

 

Tim promises John he'll just burn the rope and makes him swear he is never opening his mouth about shibari again.

 

When Ginger gets back in town a few days later, coming to Tim's place, pale, hair a wild mess, with lines on his face and wearing a T-shirt backwards, Tim greets him in the doorway.

"John asked me to tie him up and then nobody even had an orgasm, because he wanted to play, and now I have a ton of motherfucking rope under my bed that I don't know what to do with."

Ginger looks at him, swaying on his feet, thought process slow and clearly visible on his pale wrinkled face.

"Uh..." he says. "You can tie me up."

 

 _What the fuck_ , Tim thinks, _what the fuck did you have to open your stupid mouth and tell me that for?_

 

 

***  
A lesson in phonology  
***

 

" _Gigantisk bläckfisk_ " Tim says, John tilting his head and trying to look into his mouth.

 

They're sitting outside a cafe, Tim's drinking coffee, John's fiddling with forks and eating something disgusting.

" _Erektil dysfunktion_ ," Tim says. " _Onaturlig otukt._ "

John laughs, gasping.

"Dude, I have no fucking idea what you're saying."

" _Kuk från yttre rymden_ ," Tim says, puffing the smoke out with his lips. " _Analöppning._ "

"What do you have in your fucking mouth?" John laughs, trying to catch his face.

" _Vassa tänder och två kukar_ ," he laughs too, looking at John blinking at him. "You know what I have in there. You've been there."

"There must be something I missed." John says, grabbing him by the chin. "Open up. Let me see."

 

So Tim opens his mouth and lets John poke around in there while they are sitting outside a cafe, people passing by and staring at them, both of them giggling and getting hard.

 

 

*

(Giant squid; erectile dysfunction; unnatural fornication; cock from outer space; anus; sharp teeth and two cocks)

 

 

***  
Ginger chic  
***

"So you haven't seen him around too these last ten days either?" Tim asks, a toothpick in his mouth.

"Nope," John says. "Ginger's fucking vanished. I mean I called, and he was like "sorry, I am busy." Are you seriously telling me he wasn't just fucking your ass all that time?"

"He wasn't," Tim says, sighing. "He doesn't even come. Can you believe it? Ginger's not at my place for ten fucking days."

"I think an intervention is needed," John says, humming.

 

It takes the joint effort of all four of their hands and some other, more robust body parts, to finally make Ginger talk.

"Okay, you sick motherfuckers," he says. "I am fucking dating a woman, okay?"

"What?" Tim and John say simultaneously.

"Yeah. And we're going to be dating until she goes away. And I don't want any of your fucking filth near me during this time. Fucking hell."

John giggles. Tim snorts.

"Ginj," Tim says. "Spill it out. We wanna know. Tell us."

"Yeah," John says, smiling and sitting up. "You can tell us."

 

Ginger eyes them suspiciously for approximately fourteen billion years and then tells them he's dating a Hungarian lady, a university fucking professor, who is here for a project for the next two weeks or so.

"Wow," Tim says. "How the fuck does a drummer in a wifebeater who never wears any fucking pants pick up a university professor?"

Ginger tells him to fuck off, so it remains a mystery for some time.

They manage to convince him to let them meet her, John tickling him, Tim threatening him with torture, Ginger helpless and buried dead in the fucking woods.

 

Her name is Lejla.

John jumps and claps his hands once he pulls Tim into the bathroom excusing themselves three minutes after they get into the house, shutting the door behind them.

"She is a fucking redhead," he says, shaking Tim by the arms. "Have you seen her fucking boobs? I fucking love her. I fucking love Ginger. I love both of them. I love everybody."

Tim, of course, says nothing of the sort.

Tim says nothing, leaning on the sink, just laughing instead.

Tim says nothing.

But.

_Well._

 

Ginger, of course, makes them swear there won't be any maneuvers.

"I am not having a filthy fucking orgy," he says. "I am not."

"It's not an orgy, it's a foursome," Tim corrects him.

"Fuck off. Fucking swear you will not try anything. I will never ever touch you again if you try anything. Do you sick motherfuckers hear me?"

So both Tim and John solemnly swear they will keep their filth to themselves.

 

Boy, is it fucking hard not to break their promise.

Because Lejla is cool and frankly beautiful, and the three of them sit on the couch, eating paprikash she's cooked, while Tim sits on the floor, thinking that he's so paying her back for that, and they chat for three hours, John smiling with his lipstick free lips on his pretty fucking face, Tim dancing with her, following her step, Ginger white as a sheet throughout the whole evening, dropping things on the floor, awkward and having multiple fucking seizures.

When Tim and John finally leave after midnight, wishing them sweet dreams, they run to the car with a mantra of 'fucks' and 'shits' on their lips, they drive to John's house and then they jerk each other off, standing on the bed on their knees, staring at each other's dumbfounded faces, John talking about Lejla's breasts and Ginger's cock, Tim - about Ginger's fucking face in her pussy.

They come, panting as if they've been running for apporximately fourteen billion years, and then John tells Tim they should take a junkoath never to do it again and never ever tell Ginger of what they've done, so they smear all four of their hands in each other's come, drawing crosses on skin, and then just breathe for what feels like eternity.

 

They break the vow the next time the four of them meet, crashing and falling down the slippery slope, and they spend two glorious weeks of breaking it again and again, hanging out with stupid scared miserable fucking Ginger and smiling smart witty ginger Lejla, keeping their filth to themselves, because both of them figure Ginger can fucking have this, Ginger can and should be fucking happy.

"She touched my fucking arms!" John says, moaning into Tim's mouth, Tim's hand on his cock, after John plays guitar for all of them and Lejla does indeed touch his arms, looking at his ink and tracing her fingers over it. ' _I wish I could have tattoos like that. I mean, I have some on my inner thigh, but arm sleeves don't go well with academic tenure positions. Sadly_ ,' she says.

Tim says nothing, not a single word, biting hard into his own fist, John's hand on his cock, after one day, when they've finished dinner Tim's cooked for all of them, she offers to style his hair and then does his make up, smearing his lips in bright red lipstick. 'I _t is really cool that all of you wear make up. Kenneth had some lipstick on when we met, so I just thought to myself: that man is hot, you know_ ,' she says.

"So tell me," Ginger says, after all three of them wave at Lejla at the airport, her and Ginger kissing on the mouth, John whining with his hand pressed over his lips, Tim thinking he's going to come right there and then in his fucking pants, and turns to look at them. "Tell me, you sick motherfuckers, how many fucking times did you jerk off thinking of us together?

 _How the fuck would I know_ , Tim thinks.

 _Do I fucking look,_ he thinks, _like I know anything?_

"Eleven," John says. "Not to mention the solo sessions."

 

That number, though, doesn't stay the same and keeps growing, slowly, but steadily, because Ginger and Lejla stay in touch and call each other, send each other fucking cards, and Ginger casually telling them 'Lejla says hi" from time to time might be some sort of super powerfull ancient magical fucking spell, Tim thinks, while Ginger doesn't even know it.

 

***  
That time when John throws Tim out of the house  
***

 

Tim fucks John on his hands and knees, telling him tales of horrible things he is going to do to his cock, John moaning obscenely and pushing back to meet him, Tim holding his hips tight.

It is blissful and magical for some minutes and then Tim goes and actually does some of the things he threatens John with, twisting his cock, John crying out, Tim coming hard that very instant.

John falls off his cock, slouching, and then gets up as if propelled by a huge wave, grabs at Tim's hair and at his arm, and drags him off the bed.

"Fuck off," John says, walking across the room and down the corridor to the front door, pushing him with his hands, squeezing his arm, fingers digging painfully into Tim's skin, Tim stumbling on unsteady feet, trying to inhale at least some air. "Fuck off from here and never come back. Torture somebody else."

Then he opens the door and pushes Tim out, shutting it behind him with a loud bang.

 _Fuck_ , Tim thinks.

He cannot move for some time, standing there in shock, half bent and panting. Then he hears the door open again and some of the feathers, dust and mold leave his throat, letting him breathe for a fraction of a second, but no.

No.

John throws his clothes at him, his pretty face wrinkled and shattered in a pattern that Tim doesn't recognize, his eyes wet and angry, and then shuts the door again.

Tim vomits a minute after that.

He gets to his car, drives and pulls over on the next street, which at that time is not familiar to him.

He vomits again, stomach empty and retching painfully.

He sits in the car till it is dark, his face pressed into his hands, and then he gets his phone out and finally calls Ginger.

"Hey," he hears. "Are you not coming? I've finished the damn book already, I am back in business."

"Ginj," he says in somebody else's voice. "I did shit."

"Oh."

"Yeah. Come to John's place, okay? Like go now. Don't stay at mine."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says, and it is the last thing Tim hears from either of them for the next two weeks.

The next two weeks that he spends shoving pills into his mouth one after another, never taking a single breath, some new, foreign emptiness forming in his chest.

 

When they finally meet with him, they sit on the bench, all three of them, four hands stuffing his dumb face with doughnuts that he cannot eat, that he cannot fucking process, the heavy weight of the last two weeks still crushing him.

But he breathes again.

 _I am never ever hurting either of them again_ , he thinks, doughnut in his mouth, looking at John's pretty smiling face, Ginger's hand brushing the sugar powder off his cheeks and even off his damn forehead.

 

Stupid hopeful naive fucking shark.

 

 

***  
Brian  
***

 

Tim sits on the floor, fiddling with some wires, barely looking at them. Instead he looks at two kissing moaning fucking bastards, trying not to smile like an idiot, but the nuke in his chest grows a mouth of its own and grins for him anyway.

They are both in costumes, because it is maybe an hour before the show, and John is playing his motherfucking guitar, shaking his head to the rhythm, hair swinging, laughing, grabbing at Ginger's arm from time to time, Ginger standing in front of him with two tiny fucking cymbals in his hands, clapping them, creating a funky beat.

Tim thinks he's going to die a blissful shark choked on a pile of sugar any second now.

Then Brian gets into the room.

John laughs and pats Ginger's arm once more, smiling at him, his face pretty, hair swinging.

"Fuck, John," Brian says. "Why don't you just suck his fucking cock?"

Tim feels a bullet pass through his brain.

The guitar tune stops. The beat stumbles and then one of the cymbals lands on the floor.

 _Fuck_ , Tim thinks.

"What?" Brian asks, irritated. "Or are you sucking his cock already?"

 _Fuck_ , Tim thinks.

"Tim," Brian says, and Tim feels blood and bile in his mouth. "What do you reckon, is John sucking Ginger's cock?"

Tim clenches his fists without feeling them.

"Fuck, Brian. That is none of your goddamn business," he says.

"Yes, I am," John says at the same time, in somebody else's voice. "I am sucking Ginger's cock. I am sucking Tim's cock. I am sucking Pogo's cock. I am sucking my fucking father's cock. I suck everybody who asks. Do you want me to suck you off too, Brian?" he shouts, throws his guitar on the floor and walks out of the room.

 _Fuck_ , Tim thinks.

Brian and Ginger look at each other for two or three seconds, then Ginger throws the cymbal that is still in his hand at him and walks out of the room too.

"Brian," Tim says, gritting his teeth. "Do you never fucking learn?"

 

"I hope he overdoses," Tim says, standing next to John, smoking, squeezing the filter between his fingers.

"Fucking hell," Ginger says, touching John's hand with his stupid scared fucking fingers. Holding John's miserable ones.

John says nothing.

 

That concert sucks.

 

Tim goes clubbing a week later with Brian and shoves cocaine up his nostrils, shitting on everything Brian has ever done in his life and praying to the pagan gods for the nervous breakdown.

 

 

***  
That time when Ginger runs out of the room on Tim  
***

 

At 5 pm the day is perfect.

Tim cooks a magnificent dinner at John's house, outdoing himself, even though there is virtually no cutlery in John's kitchen and he has to ransack everything for ages to find fucking salt.

They eat sitting on the floor in the room, both John and Ginger fucking moaning and telling him he is a shark god of the ocean.

Then they lie on the floor, fooling around, fighting, listening to music, not letting John play guitar, just chatting and staring at each other.

At around seven Ginger sighs, eyeing both of them, then turns his face to look at the ceiling.

"I have a foot fetish," he says.

Tim immediately feels like a dead gutted shark to be left rotting under the sun, because he knows where that is coming from and he knows that there is more.

John is unaware.

So Tim freezes on the floor, cold stiff motionless carcass. John on the other hand snorts.

"I am serious," Ginger says, sighing again. "Tim sucks on my toes and I come like a crazy motherfucker."

He drags his own body up like a dead weight, sits and hugs his knees. Tim sits up too, even though the rigor mortis has fully set in by now and he shouldn't be able to move a single digit.

John laughs, turning to lie on his stomach, his feet swinging in the air.

"Hot," he says. "Fuck. This is a weird conversation to have outside of bedroom. I am eating fucking peanuts. Why are you telling this to me now?"

 _Right_ , Tim thinks. _Indeed._

"I uh..." Ginger starts speaking again. "I just..."

"Yeah?" John asks.

"Tim fucks me," Ginger hurries out in one go.

John laughs.

"Dude," he says. "I kinda know Tim fucks you. I've seen it. I jerked off to it."

Ginger looks at John, his face pale and a bit scared.

 _Fuck_ , Tim thinks. _I am not getting out of here alive._

"Uh. No," Ginger says, licking his lips.

Then John finally gets it.

"Oh," he says. "You mean Tim fucks _you._ Okay. Wow. Hot."

Ginger whines through his teeth a little.

 _I cannot fucking help you_ , Tim thinks. _I know I should. But I am a dead fucking shark. I am already rotten. I am already gone. There is nothing of me left._

"Didn't know you liked it," John says, smiling. "I still don't fucking get why you are telling it to me now. I mean, like this," he makes a vague gesture between the three of them.

"Uh..." Ginger manages, John waits for an answer for a few seconds and then sits up and turns to Tim.

 _Oh fuck_ , Tim thinks. _Please, no_ , he thinks.

"Tim," John says. "What's up with him? Why is he telling me all this? Not that I mind, it is fucking hot. But."

And then Tim just shrugs.

Just moves his shoulders in a "how the fuck would I know" his own specialty type of a shrug.

He can feel that Ginger stops breathing at that.

He hates himself.

 

Then Ginger gets up.

"Fuck you," he says to Tim.

And runs out of the fucking room.

Out of the fucking house.

 

 _I am dead_ , Tim thinks.

 

"What the fuck is going on here?" John asks, his voice changed, his face changed. He gives a full body shudder, as if he's just witnessed something repulsive happen.

And he has.

He just doesn't realize it was Tim being fucking Tim.

"Where the fuck did he go? Why was he telling me all this? Tim?"

 _Because I pushed him into it and he let me and he cannot ever stop letting me and only says his stupid fucking things to me because of it_ , Tim thinks.

He opens his mouth.

"Fucking talk," John says.

And Tim starts talking, words ejected out of him.

"Because I fucking touched his feet once and it got him hard and then I pushed and now we are doing it and he is losing his fucking mind every time. Because I touched his fucking hole once and he freaked out about shit being there and me being disgusted with him and then I fucking pushed again and now he sits on my cock like a broken doll and takes it like I tell him. Because he kept his mouth shut about it since forever and it is a big fucking deal to him, so we agreed we'd tell you, and now I fucking shrugged. Because I pushed him into all of it and now we are doing it all the fucking time and then after I slap him he tells me he fucking loves me and cries."

 _Here_ , Tim thinks.

_Delivered._

_I am the worst fucking shark_ , he thinks. _I should be cut into pieces and served as fucking sashimi. I should be chewed whole and then spat out. People should fucking vomit me._

"Fuck," John says, looking genuinely terrified. "Are you even serious?"

"Yes," Tim says.

"Jesus," John says and gets up, looking down at Tim. "You should go after him."

 _Do I fucking look_ , Tim thinks, _like I can go after anybody?_

He opens his mouth like a shark dying on the sand, and feels fucking objections forming on the tip of his tongue.

Apparently, they are also forming on his dumb unforgivable face.

"No. Tim, no. You are going. You need to seriously fucking talk to him. I need to seriously fucking talk to him. We all need to talk."

And then again.

"Fuck, how do you even dare sit here and—"

 _Because I am a horrible motherfucking monster_ , Tim thinks and gets up, cutting John off.

 

Tim goes out of the house.

He walks around a bit, in no particular direction, just running in circles, crossing the miserable haunted street that by that time is oh so familiar to him, feeling his stomach retching, and then realizes that Ginger fucking drives.

That there are taxis, if he didn't.

That there is no fucking reason for him to be anywhere near here by now.

 

He stops in his tracks, bending, vomits his magnificent fucking dinner out and then just stands like that, panting, looking at the concrete and his own inner shit on it.

He takes out the phone and calls Ginger.

 

Tim feels like it's a major fucking miracle when he finally picks up, on Tim's third call that was infinitely harder to make than the first and the second one.

"Ginj," he says.

He hears Ginger's breath on the other end of the line.

"Where are you at?" he asks.

It is maybe even more than fourteen billion years later that he gets an answer.

"I don't fucking know. On my butt on the ground. In some fucking park. Somewhere near John's house. I can see that stupid sign next to it from here," he says in one go, voice shaking.

 _Oh my fucking God_ , Tim thinks. _Ginger. One of a fucking kind._

 _Cannot you really just tell me to get lost already_ , he thinks. _You really fucking can not._

 _Why did I ever touch you_ , he thinks. _Who told me I could?_

 _Why did you ever let me touch you, you stupid miserable beautiful fucking squid_ , he thinks and starts walking.

 

Ginger is sitting on the ground in the park, hugging his knees.

Tim shakes upon seeing him, not knowing what to do.

Tim sits down on the ground next to him.

Tim thinks he needs some serious fucking magic now.

Ginger tilts awkwardly and collapses into his arms.

 

 _I should be tortured for this foverer_ , Tim thinks.

 

"Ginger. What the fuck are you doing?" he asks.

"I don't know. Fucking hug me."

Tim hugs him.

"Why do you let me do this? Why don't you do something?"

"Fuck," Ginger says. "What can I fucking do?"

Tim hugs him tight.

"I don't know. Throw me out of the house. Tell me to get lost. Make me fuck off already. Run out of the fucking room like you wanted all this time."

Ginger laughs.

"Yeah, I am kind of past that point."

"You kind of did it now."

"Right, and look how far I got."

Tim kisses him on the forehead.

"Fuck off," Ginger says.

"Okay," Tim answers and hugs him even tighter.

 

They somehow manage to scoop themselves off the ground. They go back to John's house. John opens the door and looks at them.

Tim presents Ginger to him like a fucking gift, just puts him into his arms.

"If you two are going to kill me," he says. "And by the way you absolutely should. If you're going to do that, let me tell you first how to dispose of my horrible fucking body, because I don't want you two to get caught."

 _I so need to be disposed of_ , Tim thinks.

 _I don't want the whole fucking city to get poisoned_ , he thinks.

"Fuck off," John says. "We are going to bed. That is not how we deal with problems around here."

 

Tim thinks that John quite possibly possesses his own magical powers after that day.

Because apparently they deal with problems around there by making Ginger even more undone.

 

They lie on the bed, Tim behind Ginger, his face just buried in his hair, Ginger and John facing each other.

He never lifts his head.

He never looks.

Who is he to fucking look at that?

They start kissing after some minutes. Touching, taking off the clothes, lying back down, kissing again, telling each other stupid fucking things.

It goes on for maybe ten minutes.

"Tim," John says suddenly.

 _What the hell do you need me for_ , Tim thinks.

"Tim, come on, touch Ginger," he says, and Ginger shivers, pressed into Tim, and gives a breathy moan.

And when Tim doesn't, stupid simple unacquainted with John's magic dumb shark, John grabs his hand and puts it on Ginger's fucking ass.

 _Are you fucking serious_ , Tim thinks.

Then Ginger shifts a little, lifting his leg, spreading his thighs open.

Tim burns.

 

Ginger shudders and moans when Tim's burnt non existent fingers touch his hole.

"Yeah?" Tim hears John's voice. "Nice, right?"

"Fuck," Ginger says. "Yeah."

"Cool," John says. "Tell me."

There is nothing left of Tim to burn, and yet he burns again, touching Ginger without even being there.

"Fuck, John. It's so fucking hot. I love it when he touches me. I love his fucking cock inside of me."

John giggles.

"Who fucking doesn't?" he says. "Tell me what you like."

"Everything. His dry heartless fucking fingers. When he shoves them up my ass and then makes me lick them. Fuck, this is disgusting."

John laughs.

"Ginj, are you seriously freaking out because of that?"

"Fuck, yeah. I feel like I am disgusting all the time."

"That's dumb. That is like not even a problem. And you know, wet fucking towels exist for a reason."

Ginger laughs, and Tim goes into shock.

 _How can he laugh after what I just did_ , Tim thinks.

"I know. I still fucking feel like I am just made of shit. Fuck."

They kiss.

"Do you know," John speaks again. "Do you know how many times I fingered myself and then pulled out and got me a little surprise?"

Ginger laughs again.

 _Why am I even allowed to be here_ , Tim thinks.

 _How I am not forbidden to listen to this_ , Tim thinks.

 _There should be a law against this_ , Tim thinks.

"I'd fucking die if that happened."

"No, you wouldn't. You just wipe it off. Ginj. You just wipe it off your stupid fingers."

"I am not sure he would let me, you know," Ginger says.

Tim dies a little inside.

Tim dies a lot.

Tim is a dead fucking shark.

"I think he would just make me suck them," he continues.

John snorts.

"That... Probably not. I mean, maybe. But seriously, Ginj."

 _I am in the same fucking room as you two are_ , Tim thinks.

 _How am I even allowed to be in the same room_ , he thinks.

"You just... You just don't know. He fucks me and tells me he puts his cock in my shit. Fuck. And I come to that. I fucking come on his cock listening to him telling me that."

"Fuck, Ginj. That is seriously hot. You are fucking hot. I've got to fucking see that."

Ginger laughs.

"I love you," he says.

"Yeah, love you too," John says. "Tell me what you fucking like."

"I just love his damn cock inside of me. Don't you fucking love it too?"

"Of course," John says. "It is like... It's like his cock is angry, you know. So fucking hot."

They giggle.

Then Ginger's muscles clench a bit under Tim's fingers and he moans.

"Yeah?" John says.

Tim feels like he is losing his mind.

 _I am fucking drowning_ , he thinks. _Please, don't help me. I am going to sink. I am going to stay there forever._

"Yeah," Ginger says. "Jesus, I am going to come."

"Wait," John says. "Tell me about your feet."

"Oh," Ginger says. "Fuck, that was crazy."

"Yeah? Tell me."

"Wait. Let's fucking kiss first."

"Sure."

They kiss.

 _What am I even witnessing here_ , Tim thinks.

 _Can I even do that_ , he thinks.

"Okay," Ginger says. "Fuck."

He shifts, pushing back at Tim's fingers.

Tim burns.

"Wait," John says. "Tim."

 _What can you possibly need from me_ , Tim thinks.

 _What can you two possibly need me for_ , he thinks.

"Come on. Fuck him. Ruin Ginger," John says, giggling.

Ginger laughs, shivering and pressing into Tim.

Tim lifts his hand, puts two of his fingers in his own mouth and then rubs them into Ginger's hole.

Not that he is in control of what he's doing.

Not that he is even fucking around.

Ginger moans, opening up.

"Hot," John says. "Tell me about the feet."

"Okay," Ginger says. "You know, the first time... The first time we were just chilling out on the couch. He was like... you know, sweet?"

John chuckles.

"You mean, like a Nice Tim?"

"Yeah, totally like a NIce Tim."

"Okay. What did he do?"

"Yeah, that's the thing. Nothing. He just stared at the damn screen and smoked. Kept my fucking feet in his lap. Touched them. Didn't fucking listen to a single word I was saying."

John laughs at that.

"Okay, that is not a Nice Tim."

 _Am I in fucking hell_ , Tim thinks.

 _Who let me in here_ , he thinks.

"Yeah. Probably. Whatever. So anyway, he was just smoking and running his damn fingers over my feet."

Ginger stops after that and moans.

"Fuck."

John laughs softly.

"I know," he says.

"And I got super fucking hard."

"Did you say anything?"

"John. Of course I didn't fucking say anything."

"Okay."

"He just turned his head, looked at me and then in ten seconds I was jerking off like crazy. My fucking feet up in the air, my toes in his damn mouth. Tim staring at my goddamn hole."

John laughs again.

"That's hot," he says. "Tim, come on. Fuck him harder."

"I am fucking dry," Ginger whispers, but Tim hears him anyway.

"Yeah? Okay. Tim."

"Fuck, John. No. Not that. It is disgusting. I am gonna fucking come."

"Yeah," John says. "Tim. Ginj's dry."

 _To ruin Ginger_ , Tim thinks. _That's why I am here._

He removes his dry fingers out of Ginger's ass and shoves them into his mouth, his lips soft and wet.

Ginger moans.

Ginger licks his fingers.

"Ginj, you are fucking hot like that, you know," John says, his voice shaking.

Tim puts his fingers back into Ginger, pushing in.

"Fuck," Ginger says. "Gonna come soon."

"Yeah," John laughs. "Tell me more. Did you do that again?"

"Okay. Okay. Of course we did it again. Of course he did it again. Fuck. Don't you fucking know?"

"Yeah, I do. Wanna kiss?"

They kiss.

"Fuck, John. I'm gonna come. Fuck. I fucking love him."

"I know. Just don't fucking cry. I'm gonna freak out."

"Fuck. Okay. He fucking ruined me on his fucking couch, you know. ' _Ginger, tell me what you like._ ' Fuck."

"Wow. Okay. Fuck. Did you?"

"Of course I fucking did."

 _Hello, I am Tim_ , Tim thinks. _I ruin Ginger. I am exceptionally good at it._

"Told him fucking everything. About my damn mouth on his cock. About his dry fucking fingers. About my stupid feet. About you touching my nipples."

"Oh. He didn't know?"

"Of course he didn't fucking know."

John laughs.

"So?"

"So yeah. He just went and did it all to me. Fucking ruined me there. Fuck. Damn, I am gonna come. I am gonna come just telling you this."

"You're fucking hot. You're awesome. I love you. I seriously fucking love you."

Ginger moans, shaking on Tim's fingers, clenching, convulsing.

"Couldn't fucking tell him about the shit thing."

"Fuck. Why not?"

"John. Fuck. You know. Just couldn't open my damn mouth."

"Okay, I know."

"He fucking talked about it anyway. Made me come because of that. Fucking disgusting."

"Fuck," John says. "Are you coming?"

"Yeah," Ginger breathes out. "Just... God. Can you fucking hold my hand?"

"Of course."

 

Ginger comes with Tim's fingers inside of him, both of them pressed into each other, Tim's face buried in his hair, Ginger hot and sweaty and shivering and clenching.

Tim hears them kiss, Ginger moaning into John's mouth, John saying something he doesn't quite catch, then moaning too, the bed shaking underneath both of them.

He never looks.

 

"Tim," John says. "Come here."

 _Why_ , Tim thinks. _Why would you need me there?_

"Come on."

Tim sits up, the pair of stupid kissing moaning bastards lying next to him in a steaming pile of limbs. John's panting, his face happy, there is a smile on his lips. Ginger's ruined. Of course, Ginger's ruined. _Isn't it his natural fucking state_ , Tim thinks.

"Come here. Take your cock out," John says.

When Tim complies, dead, guilty, shocked, spiritually fucking moved, John takes Ginger's hand in his own and puts it on Tim.

He comes, looking at the fucking pair of them, John jerking him off with Ginger's miserable hand.

 

"Why don't you talk to me?" he asks, sitting on the bed, holding Ginger's head in his lap, his fingers in his hair, John lying next to them on his stomach, swinging his feet in the air. "Why don't you talk to me like you talk to John?"

John snorts.

"Because you shut him up. Because you just press a hand over his mouth and he comes all over himself, that's why. I fucking listen."

Ginger turns his head a bit, pressing his face into Tim's palm.

"Because I am scared of you, alright?" Ginger says, shifting his body to curl up around him. "You are a motherfucking shark."

 

 

***  
No homo  
***

 

That fucking day when Tim is late for his meetup with John because of Ginger suffering another case of his man flu in the hotel room, helping him blow his disgusting nose. That fucking day when he sees John with some dude he's chatted up on the street sitting at the table near a cafe, John admiring his guitar, smiling like an idiot. That fucking day when he sits there with them just repeating that bass is the soul of any given song and guitar is just a cock you jerk off to make people like you every time he's asked a question and looking at John's excited flirty face instead of listening to anything being said. That fucking day when he goes to fuck up his lungs leaning on the tree nearby because the smoke was getting in the faces of the people behind them and John asked him not to be a massive nuclear asshole. That fucking day when John gets pushed away and called a fucking faggot. That fucking day when Tim has no time to even react. That fucking day when he gets close to John after it's too late to punch the fucker and John's pretty face is already shattered in a pattern that Tim wants to forget so much he prays for an exceptionally early and rapid onset of fucking Alzheimer's to the terrible pagan gods that seem to have abandoned him. That fucking day when John says he needs to be alone and walks away. That fucking day when Tim roams the city thinking of hurting things that do not like being hurt. That fucking day when he finds John and hauls him over protests into Ginger's snot hell and makes the kissing moaning stupid bastards hug and hugs John too.

 _You don't fucking need to be alone_ , Tim thinks, listening to the sniffing.

 _You need to be here with me_ , Tim thinks.

 _You need to be with us_ , Tim thinks.

 

That fucking day.

 

***  
Hygiene  
***

 

Tim opens the door and catches a glimpse of John's pretty face with a toothbrush in his mouth in the mirror before coming into the bathroom, lifting the seat of the toilet and puffing out the smoke.

"Oh, do you need to pee?" John asks.

Tim looks at his beautiful naked spine.

"Yeah?"

"Okay, just give me a second and I'll get lost."

"I don't need you to get lost. I just need to take a leak."

"Fuck." John says, turning to him and then immediately turning away. "Are you gonna fucking pee when am in the room? You're disgusting."

Tim chuckles.

 

When he's finished he comes to stand next to John by the mirror.

"Wash your fucking hands," John says, his damn toothbrush still in his mouth.

Tim chuckes again.

"Dude, stop sucking on that thing already," he says. "Give it to me."

John looks at him, squinting, then pulls out the toothbrush and shoves it into Tim's mouth.

"Filthy," John says. "You're filthy."

He picks up the toothpaste, puts some on his fingers and shoves them into Tim's mouth too.

"Brush your fucking teeth."

Tim moves the toothbrush in his mouth for ten seconds, spits it out, then grabs John by the chin.

"Here. Clean," he says.

"Filthy," John says, squeezes more of the toothpaste out and smears it over Tim's face.

Tim laughs and does the same to John.

"You're disgusting. Never washing your hands. Cooking your damn awesome breakfasts with those hands. Never brushing your teeth. Smoking instead. Talking about Ginger's shit. Fuck's sake. Ginger's fucking _shit_ ," John gives a shiver. "You're disgusting. Kiss me already."

Tim does, and then he feels John's hand on his cock.

John's hand covered in minty toothpaste on his tortured hurting beaten miserable fucking cock.

"Fuck, John," he says, pulling away. "That hurts. That like... _hurts_ hurts."

John giggles.

"Yeah?" he says. "Do it too."

So Tim does it too, squeezing more of the toothpaste onto his palm and wrapping it around John. John jumps.

"Oh. That's cool. Like, cold, you know."

 _It is not fucking cold_ , Tim thinks. _It fucking burns._

 

Nevertheless, John comes a few minutes later, and so does Tim.

"We need to stop torturing my fucking cock so much," he says. "It is fucking illegal. I am sure there is a law against it."

"Yeah, blame me. Like I am the one who breaks it," John says and pushes him into the shower.

 

***  
Promises  
***

 

"Jesus. Is that a butt plug I am looking at?"

John stops playing.

"Fuck. Can you stop going through my stuff? It is my stuff, you know. It belongs to me. Don't touch it."

"John, there is a butt plug in your make up bag."

"I know. I put it there. It is my bag. I can put whatever I want into it."

Tim chuckles.

"A butt plug. John. Put your damn guitar away. We're so fucking right now."

 

There is a bit of physical altercation after that.

 

Then John puts the butt plug up Tim's ass, giggling, stretching him with his fucking magical spaghetti fingers.

Then Tim fucks John, John straddling his thighs, riding him, Tim looking at his hole and his beautiful naked spine, John's fucking butt plug up his ass.

 

"I think I need to come visit you more often," Tim says, standing in the doorway.

John pushes him out, laughing, and shuts the door.

 

Ginger emerges from the shower five minutes after Tim's through the door. They sit on the couch, Ginger complaining about his day at the studio with Brian, Tim switching channels on the TV, then pushing Ginger to lie in his lap, stretched on the couch, covered in blankets, Tim's fingers brushing his wet hair.

Then it is Tim's fingers brushing his already dry hair and Ginger squirming under the blankets, trying to move without giving himself away, like Tim doesn't notice that.

"Oh," he says, switching the channel again to news. "Forgot to tell you. Found a butt plug at John's today."

"Oh. Really?" Ginger asks, trying to make his voice sound normal.

 _You failure_ , Tim thinks.

_You stupid squid._

"Yeah. Fucked both of our brains out, of course. You know," Tim laughs, fingers spread wide in Ginger's hair and scraping. "Feel like I am never gonna get hard again."

Ginger manages a laugh that is supposed to sound chill.

"Yeah. But not to worry, Ginj," he says, turning off the TV. "I am still going to do all those horrible things to you."

Ginger freezes.

 _Caught_ , Tim thinks.

"Fuck," he says. "Fuck, Tim."

Tim laughs and gets up.

"Don't run out of the fucking room on me. I'm gonna find you anyway."

He goes to another room, runsacks his wardrobe, finds the dildo they bought in Berlin with John and gets a bottle of lube.

When he comes back Ginger is covered in blankets head to toe.

Tim laughs.

"Yeah, like that's going to help you," he says. "Come on. Take it off. Take everything off."

The blankets shake a bit. Then they fall on the floor, a wave of heat landing on Tim's face. Then Ginger pulls off his boxers, takes off the wifebeater and hugs his knees.

Tim sits on the couch, following the line of his vertebrae with his eyes.

 _Squid_ , he thinks. _Animalia. Mollusca. Cephalopoda. Shouldn't have vertebrae, should they?_

"Lie the fuck down," he says, and Ginger does, his head landing in Tim's lap again.

"I'm going to torture you for a little while, and then you'll fuck your shithole on the cock from outer space here, okay?"

Ginger shudders and puts his face in his hands. Tim laughs again.

"Oh no. Hands on the couch. Open your eyes. Open your mouth. Look at me."

When Ginger finally does look up at him, mouth open, lips soft, Tim feels the warhead in his chest acquiring altitude.

 _And no fucking missile defense system_ , he thinks, running a finger over Ginger's mouth. _Squid don't have those._

 

They spend next five minutes like that. Ginger's head is in his lap, hair soft under his fingers, hot wet breath on Tim's hand, Tim circling his lips, smearing saliva, touching his hard palate, his teeth, his tongue, Ginger lying there, being pathetic, cock up in the air, legs twisting.

"Okay," Tim says, removing his hand. "Get your fingers wet. Stretch yourself."

"Fuck."

"Open your fucking eyes and do it. I am gonna watch, okay? I'm gonna evaluate your miserable skills."

Ginger whines, then lifts his shaking hand off the couch and sucks in two fingers.

"Okay, now stretch yourself."

Ginger puts his hand down, lifting his leg, bending the knee. Tim hears him gasp. He cups his face, thumb brushing his lips.

"Fuck, Tim. It's too dry. Give me the damn lube."

Tim laughs.

"Yeah, lube's for space cock."

"Tim."

"You know what to do. You just have to fucking do it, okay? And I'll watch."

Ginger shakes violently for several seconds, having his ridiculous messy steaming fucking seizure. Then he lifts his hand and licks his fingers, hand falling down again.

 

They spend the next five minutes like that. Ginger's head is in Tim's lap, Tim cupping his face, hot and white and red under his fingers, Ginger trying to stretch himself in the most uncomfortable position imaginable, squirming, swearing, shoulders tense, legs twisting, back arching, Tim looking at his exposed throat tasting blood in his mouth.

"Okay," he says. "How are you doing in there? Ready to fuck the shit out of yourself on that space cock?"

There is another seizure after that, and Tim greatly enjoys it.

"I'm waiting for an answer."

"Don't know. I don't fucking know."

"Hm. Okay. Let's say that ten is my gaping fucking anus when you and John fuck me together," Tim says contemplatively.

"Oh my fucking God," Ginger says not contemplatively at all.

"And one is that filthy scared pathetic orifice of yours you clench tight every time we're in the same fucking room together."

 _Squid don't have any tactical defense in general_ , Tim thinks, grinning, baring his teeth, while Ginger is choking on his breath, shaking in his lap.

"Ginj," he says. "Give me a number."

"Holy fuck," Ginger squeezes out. "Fuck you. Four. Fuck me. Four, okay?"

Tim laughs.

"Sure, we can work with four."

He grabs the dildo and the lube and gives them to Ginger. Then, of course, he has to offer a helping fucking hand and uncap the thing for him, because the stupid giant squid just flaps there, shaking.

Then Ginger finally tries to get the cock in.

Failing spectacularly.

"Fuck, Tim. Do I have to fucking lie here like this? It is not very fucking comfortable."

"Yeah, I know," Tim says, smiling, puffing out the smoke. "But no probs. I can wait."

Ginger curses him and all of his ancestry, shutting his eyes, pressing hard into his lap with his head.

"Fuck you," he says and resumes his miserable attempts.

"John would have done so much better," Tim offers seconds before the cock from outer space finally gets into Ginger's hole.

"Fuck," Ginger gasps out, arching, lifting his hips awkwardly, straining his legs and pressing into Tim with his head. "I fucking hate you."

Tim laughs, looking at his swaying cock, then at his stupid squid face, mouth open and wet.

"Come on," he says. "Fuck yourself. Fuck your dirty crap on that cock."

Ginger whines and then starts moving.

 

They spend the next five minutes like that. Ginger flapping like a flag, suspended in the air, swearing and saying Tim's name a lot, white, shaken, broken, Tim laughing and calling him a failure, feeding him every shit reference he can think of, holding his tense shoulders, helping him with leverage, feeling generous beyond belief about that, feeling he has to be promoted to sainthood for that, looking at him, cock, face, sweaty mess of his hair, bony knees, clenching fists, his own cock hard and stiff and fucking aching in his jeans, thermonuclear blasts unequal to any amounts of TNT happening in his chest. Going through nothing less than a fucking rapture.

When Ginger starts coming, even though Tim's not sure how he even manages, because Tim never would, not from that impossible fucking angle, but then Ginger is one of a kind, starts shattering before him, eyes wet and looking up at Tim in such fucked up reverence Tim thinks he is definitely not allowed to be there and witness that, when he starts saying his stupid things to him, tearing himself apart before him and for him, Tim covers his mouth with his hand, pressing hard, and just looks at him from above, gritting his teeth, until Ginger is finally and irrevocably undone.

Ginger shakes in his lap for a couple of minutes after that, face wet, Tim holding him, combing his hair with his fingers, contemplating his numerous sins.

"Fuck, Tim. You're fucking hard," Ginger says after his seizure is over, pressing into Tim with his stupid head.

Tim laughs.

"Of course I am fucking hard, you stupid squid," Tim says.

"Can I do someth—"

 _Fucking unbelievable_ , Tim thinks. _Why am I even allowed to be on the same planet as you?_

"Ginj. You are a pool of helpless goo. I'm fine. Wanna smoke?"

"Okay. Yeah. Yeah."

So Tim lights up a cigarette and they smoke it together.

"I uh..." Ginger starts, when Tim lights up the next one. "I think we need to tell John about this."

"Huh?" Tim asks.

"And about the feet thing. The fucking _feet thing_ ," Ginger adds with such an exasperation in his voice that Tim cannot help but smirk.

"Why? I mean, he is well aware we fuck, you know."

Ginger sighs.

"Not like this. Fuck. Not like _this_ , Tim."

"Hm. So like he needs to know exactly how much of a horrible monster I am to you? Alright."

Ginger laughs at that.

"Fuck off. It's not that. I just feel like I'm cheating on him with this stuff. That fucking hurts."

 _Stupid helpless squid goo_ , Tim thinks, letting him smoke.

"That's fucking ridiculous," he says. "You're fucking ridiculous."

"Fuck off. I fucking lied to him about it, you know?"

 _Oh_ , Tim thinks.

_Oh._

"Yeah, exactly," Ginger says, when all he hears from Tim is his breath.

"What do you mean? How did you lie to him?"

 _This thing is a bit too specific to accidentally inquire about_ , Tim thinks.

 _This fucking thing I do to you and you let me_ , he thinks.

"Fuck. It's dumb, you know. Fucking dumb. I fucked him in the evening and we went to bed, and in the morning he was like 'damn, I fart like crazy after sitting on cock', running to the damn toilet and giggling about it."

"So what?"

"So he said that and I said "fuck, yeah" and he said "what do you mean 'fuck yeah'?"

 _Oh_ , Tim thinks.

_Mistakes._

"And I lied to him. Said something about me being twenty one and very drunk. Which never fucking happened, by the way. Fucking hate myself."

 _Fuck_ , Tim thinks.

"Ginj," he says, lifting the stupid squid goo up. "Okay. Alright. You can tell John."

Ginger laughs.

"No, I fucking can't," he says.

"I need your fucking help," he says.

"Don't fucking let me go," he says.

 

"Okay," Tim says. "We're going to tell John together."

 

He stuffs Ginger's broken face with some chicken after that. Ginger collapses on the bed.

 _Of course, I will help you_ , Tim thinks.

 _Of course, I won't let you go_ , Tim thinks.

 _Of course, we're going to tell John together_ , Tim thinks.

 

Stupid heartless naive fucking shark.

 

***  
Knocking on heaven's door  
***

 

"I'm gonna cut my goddamn arm every time we're interrupted on this tour and I'm gonna have myself a crimson fucking zebra," Tim says, shutting the door behind them with his boot, clenching his fists, walking to face whatever emergency he was asked to be facing, John smiling at him, looking guilty for some unfathomable reason.

Looking beautiful.

 

 

***  
Double trouble  
***

 

"Fuck, Tim. It hurts."

 _Of course it fucking hurts_ , Tim thinks.

"Fuck. How did you even do that? Didn't it hurt?"

 _Of course it fucking did_ , Tim thinks. _I just happen to like it when it hurts_ , Tim thinks.

"Well, remember that time you were showing me how to play your tune and I told you skill requires practice?"

"Not really," John moans, still trying to get what he wants, stubborn whining bastard. "Not now."

"Fucking hell," Ginger says. "Can we please never do it again? I fucking can't anymore."

"Shut up," Tim says. "John asked. _John._ "

Ginger puts his hand over his mouth.

"Anyway," Tim says, sliding his hand down John's beautiful spine. "I had a lot of practice. That's why I can and you can not. For now."

"Fuck," Ginger says, removing his hand. "What do you fucking mean, a lot of practice?"

Tim looks at him, smirking, and John chooses this exact moment to try it again despite everything that has just been said.

"F-fuck!" Ginger cries out, arching and showing Tim his white throat that he wants to rip open. "John. Fuck, John. I'm gonna come right now. Stop fucking moving. Please. John."

John giggles and moans at the same time.

"Okay," Tim says and pulls his fingers out of John's ass. "We're done. You jealous, greedy bastard. One cock is enough."

"Fuck," John says. "Okay. Alright."

"Jesus," Ginger says.

"John. Fuck him already," Tim says. "Fuck Ginger. His unbelievable resolve should be gratified. I am just gonna watch. Okay?"

John moans, still a bit frustrated, and starts rocking his hips, taking Ginger inside his stretched ass, Ginger flying into upper atmosphere that very second.

"God, John."

Tim lets go of John's back and falls entirely ungracefully onto the bed next to them, props his head on his elbow and looks at them, biting his own hand.

"Fuck me, Ginj," John says.

"John," Ginger says, pulling him close, their lips touching, John breathing into Ginger's mouth, Ginger into John's, their hips moving, both of them shaking and entangled with one another so tight Tim is not sure they're actually two people.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks. _Double fucking penetration._

 

They come one after another, John falling on top of Ginger, Ginger's hands on his beautiful spine.

"Hey you," Tim says, wrapping his hand around his cock. "Kissing moaning stupid bastards. Look at me."

  
So the kissing moaning stupid bastards turn their broken faces towards him, a shivering sweaty pile of limbs and sugar, and Tim thinks he's going to vomit into his mouth a bit at the sight of that, the matter in his chest condensing and then releasing the energy.

"Fuck," he says. "You two. I'm gonna come so hard."

And John takes his hand and pulls it between their hot, boneless bodies, Tim shuddering at the touch and coming with a sound on his lips that is John's name, and Ginger's name, and both their names at the same time, because he is just lucky like that.

 

 

***  
Triggered  
***

 

They party after the concert.

John trips over and falls on some boobs. Ginger tries to drag Tim along to do dumb stuff with Pogo. Tim says 'nope' and does cocaine with Brian instead.

He pokes into Ginger's room in the morning, that is actually an afternoon.

"What's up?" he says, sitting on the bed next to a pile of miserable blankets. "How dumb was it? On a scale from one to ten?"

The pile says something that sounds like 'eleven'.

Tim laughs and looks at the wardrobe. _Interesting_ , he thinks. _Does that thing move_ , he wonders.

"Wanna smoke?"

The pile moans, and then Ginger's pathetic pale face covered in lines is presented to him. He shoves a cigarette into his mouth. He looks at the wardrobe, fingers playing with Ginger's hair.

 _Why not_ , he thinks.

"Hey, Ginj," he says, taking away the smoke from him. "You hard yet?"

Ginger goes red, Tim smirks. _Just because I am in the damn room_ , he thinks.

"Cool," he says. "Do you think there's lube in your bag?"

"John's must be there," Ginger informs him. "What fucked up thing do you want to do this time?"

Tim ransacks his bag, and indeed, John's lube is in there.

"There is a full body length mirror in the wardrobe door here which looks like it can be moved just so, and I am feeling fucking nostalgic."

"Fuck," Ginger says and tries to hide under the blankets like that was ever any help to him.

Tim licks his ridiculous hot sensitive feet to lure him out.

 

It turns out the door with the mirror does move, so a bit later they sit facing each other, Tim's back to the thing, Ginger's fingers up his ass, Ginger's breath on his neck and Ginger's stupid things he needs to share with him every fucking time in his ear.

"So how is it going in there? Anything worth reporting?" he asks, looking at Ginger's cock.

"Fuck," Ginger says in a breathy voice. "You have a beautiful fucking back."

 _Oh,_ Tim thinks.

"John," he says, brushing Ginger's cock with his heartless fingers. "John has a beautiful back."

Ginger seems to agree. Tim plays with his cock some more.

"You have a beautiful back," he adds, rocking lightly on Ginger's fingers.

Ginger laughs softly.

"I have a dumb fucking face I have to look at because of you," he says.

Tim grins.

"Scared?" he asks.

"Yeah," Ginger says.

 

They move after that, now both facing the mirror, and Tim rides Ginger's awesome cock, telling him that this nice fucking arrangement does trigger some pleasant memories and Ginger doesn't seem to be inclined to disagree with him on that either.

"Gonna fucking come," Ginger says into his ear.

"Nope," Tim says, looking at his dumb eyes in the mirror looking back at him. "You've got to do something horrible to me first. Come on. Imagine you are me."

Ginger laughs at that too, sounding broken, and then shoves four of his fingers into Tim's mouth. _You know me so well_ , Tim thinks, his nuclear bomb grinning for him, and then tortures his cock for their mutual entertainment reflected back at them, clenching around Ginger's awesome fucking cock after some seconds and Ginger coming into him too, hand pressed hard over his shark mouth full of teeth.

They smoke afterwards.

"Okay," Tim says, his fingers in Ginger's sweaty hair. "We so need to do this again, but with John."

 

They do it again with John a few days later, after Tim makes a few calls asking for full body length mirrors in the room.

They do it again, John no doubt also feeling nostalgic on his hands and knees, saying dumb shit about ass demolition, going into shock every time he catches a glimpse of Tim's smoking snout in the mirror, Ginger fucking into him from behind, lost in the woods, dumb pale face with feverish spots on it and messy hair, pulling John's head up because Tim said so, Tim just chilling out there on the bed next to them, slapping his cock from time to time, puffing out smoke, looking at them right beside him and at them in the mirror, coming a bit later than the kissing moaning bastards with a tight grip of his fist on his cock, baring his teeth, when they are just a steaming pile of boneless limbs smiling at him.

 

Then several days later they sit in a bar somewhere, and Tim looks at them, feeding each other peanuts and kissing way too much.

"Hey," he says. "How about we do the mirror thing again, but this time I fuck Ginger's filthy hole and make him look at his own misery?"

There is a seizure happening right next to him a second later.

 _Good to know I still make you want to run out of the fucking room on me after all this time, you pathetic squid with tender tentacles_ , Tim thinks, grinning.

"Or," he adds, looking at John who seems to be suffering insuffient shock. "How about John does it?"

 

Then a week later they do the mirror thing again, both him and John licking Ginger's hot kinky fucking feet to make him enough of a squid goo to actually go through with it, Ginger riding John or rather stumbling on his cock and flapping like a flag, suspended in thin air, John completely ruined underneath him, nevertheless chanting his sweet mantra into Ginger's ear, but this time adding "fucking tight" to the list of felicitations, Tim thinking _I know what you mean_ , chilling out there next to them, providing the necessary shit commentary, smoking, looking at helpless moaning bastards right beside him and at them in the mirror.

Ginger comes on John's cock with tears on his eyes, John freaking out a bit but coming as well, holding him in a tight embrace, both of them falling on the bed near Tim after that and slapping his neglected cock with their shaking fucking hands, because Tim says he's tired of doing all the heavy work around here and demands some respect, doing that until he comes, panting, his blissful shark face and his sharp teeth on display.

 

 

***  
Virtuoso in shining armour  
***

 

"Wanna see what the little elves have brought me?" Tim asks, poking his head into Ginger's room.

Three minutes later they drop acid.

An hour later they are on the floor holding hands together, looking at the ceiling, lost in the fucking woods.

"Tim. Fuck, Tim. Just fucking kill the tiny bastards next time you see them," Ginger manages.

Two hours later they are probably still on the floor, but who knows. Tim doesn't. Does he fucking look like he knows anything?

Three hours later Tim vomits and there is nobody there to help him.

Five hours later Tim tells Ginger everything he knows about sea creatures surrounding them and he knows a lot. _A lot._

Seven hours later Ginger touches his hand with his stupid scared fingers and ponders if both of them are even real.

Nine hours later they're still thinking about this, shaking, sweaty, not able to take a single breath.

 

"Oh my God," John says, opening the door. "You sick motherfuckers."

They sit on the floor facing each other, gripping each other's hands tight, faces white. If they exist, that is.

"What did you fucking take? We're playing today. Are you even for real?"

That question doesn't land well.

 

John puts cigarettes in their mouths, again confirming that they do exist, and towers over them, lying wasted on the floor, holding hands.

"You need fucking supervision. Why does crazy horrible shit happen every time you're alone in the room?"

John lies with them on the floor.

John hugs them.

John is a fucking saviour.

 

That concert sucks.

 

***  
Much needed supervision  
***

 

The first time John witnesses their shit fucking session it is a disaster from the start.

Not that there aren't any orgasms, of course.

But.

 

Ginger starts shaking in the car when they are not even halfway there, and when Tim tells him he is indeed horrible, but not even he is that kind of a person to break him so much, Ginger insists and whines and fucking begs him, so that's that.

Ginger doesn't stop shaking when they get to John's place and John hugs him and drowns him in his fucking kindness and works his weird conversational magic.

John drags Tim to the kitchen and questions him like Spanish fucking inquisition.

 _I wish I could help you_ , Tim thinks.

When they get back into the room determined to put an end to this and never do it again no matter Tim's fucked up nuclear urges Ginger devastates both of them by begging again and crying.

"Just don't touch me, John, okay?" he says, and John pulls up a chair and sits as far from the bed as possible, clenching his fists.

 _I've been there_ , Tim thinks. _I wish I could help you._

Then Tim ruins Ginger. Of course, Tim ruins Ginger.

He puts him on his hands and knees and stretches him, using Ginger's own saliva, making him lick the fingers after he pulls them out over and over again. Then he flips him over, pushing him closer to the edge of the bed, so that his head is hanging off it and Tim can see only his gulping throat, but John gets a good look at his face and thus Tim knows what's happening there, and fucks him with his legs spead wide, talking about excrements the whole time, looking first at John and then at Ginger's beautiful twitching cock and then just at his helpless gulping throat, because it is the only thing in the universe he cares about, blood in his mouth and explosions in his chest.

Ginger comes, clenching tight around him, crying, confessing all of his sins though they are actually Tim's and have never been his own, looking at John looking back at him.

Tim yanks him up after that, holds him by his hair, and does horrible things to his own cock, while Ginger shakes and tells him he loves him approximately fourteen billion times, Tim gritting his teeth, looking at his stupid face and thinking the kissing moaning bastards are so going to fail disposing of his body after he dies right there and then and that he should have provided them with sensible advice long ago.

John suffers on the chair, shocked, whining and damaged forever, until maybe the graceful touch of dementia lands on his beautiful features as well, and ends up biting his hand so hard there is blood and he cannot play for the next ten days, during which he composes a motherfucking monstrosity seventeen minutes long and makes Tim play it, giving him instructions and laughing at his miserable skills, sitting at Tim's place, and talks about shit every time Ginger is in the room with them, bringing it up after every possible turn of conversation, Tim thinking who knew he was that fucking inventive, until Ginger breaks into tears yet again after hearing the word "chocolate" and tells John he didn't know he was that cruel. Tim thinks all three of them are done after that and there is no return from there, feeling so dead he's never felt before, even though there've been multiple other occasions he could compare this one to, but he turns out to be wrong, his premonition about as perfect as any other premonition there is, because they are not done after that, because after that he ruins Ginger all over again and this time it is glorious, though there aren't many differences with the first time in terms of physical arrangements, and Tim thinks some ancient witchcraft just has to be involved, though who possesses the powers is very unclear at the moment. _Maybe it's all three of us_ , Tim thinks. _Maybe we are a fucking coven_ , he thinks, fucking Ginger on his back, his head hanging off the bed, his beautiful fucking throat exposed, talking about feces every time Ginger's damn foot is not in his mouth, making him come in tears and with all the stupid things he needs to share with Tim said all over again, while John fucks himself on the cock from outer space sitting on the chair looking at Ginger looking back at him, both of them smiling and talking about how much they love Tim being inside them.

 

 _Maybe we are a glorious fucking shitsorcery coven_ , Tim thinks, passing out on the bed in a steaming pile of limbs later that day.

 

***  
Haute cuisine  
***

 

"Ginj," Tim says, entering the kitchen where Ginger sits sipping green tea that Tim keeps throwing away and Ginger keeps buying. "Check this out."

Tim pulls two whole squids out of the bag and puts them on the table in front of him, grinning like a crazy motherfucking shark.

"Oh my fucking God," Ginger says, dropping the cup.

 

Tim cooks the squids with chorizo and artichokes, Ginger sitting there through the whole process, hugging himself by the shoulders, knuckles white, Tim slicing the damn things with a sharp knife right under the eyes, pulling out the head and intestines and the ink sac, peeling the skin and cutting it more artfully than John plays guitar, throwing the meat into the frying pan and then presenting Ginger with a fantastically looking result.

They eat it drinking white wine like a couple of adults who are not fucking boring at all.

 

"This is seriously fucking weird," Ginger tells him after they finish, washing the dishes together, partners in crime.

And Tim would have said 'oh, you have no idea exactly how weird it is', but that would be lying, because by that point in time Ginger has precise understanding of what is actually going on between the two of them.

 

***  
Bang! Bang! Bang!  
***

 

"Okay. No. No. You're my favorite things to torture and all, but this has to stop. I cannot do this insulin deficiency inducing shit anymore, alright? I just can't. Can we go somewhere normal?" Tim asks one day. "Why is it always watching romantic fucking comedies sitting in a back row and motherfucking ice-cream in an unstable teenager's feverish dream of a cafe all the time?"

Ginger sighs. John sighs.

"Where would you wanna go?" John asks.

Tim puffs out the smoke.

"Don't know. Firing range?"

 

That is followed by a revolt among the masses.

 

"You know, John, kneeing me in the face is not the best way to express your intolerance to violence and all that symbolizes it," Tim says into the phone the next day.

Then John hangs up on him and Ginger gets dragged to the shooting gallery, because he doesn't know how to say no.

They go there with Ginger for maybe four or fives times again, Ginger being a failure and Tim laughing at him and having the time of his life, more because of that than because of the things he gets to fire guns at. Then they both agree that an indispensible element is missing, and after Tim lies, cheats and steals to achieve the desired end, while Ginger just stands next to him being complicit, John finally gets dragged to the shooting gallery as well, Tim smelling blood and grinning.

Once they are there, though, it is maybe only ten minutes later that Tim turns to Ginger with his mouth in a perfect circle and in all sincerity asks him to hold him by his fucking arms tight, otherwise he is blowing that beautiful lipstick wearing man in hideous sunglasses and a fur fucking coat right there and then for everybody to see and learn how much he worships him, because John shoots at things and just never misses.

Ginger complies, so Tim blows John in the car in broad daylight instead, having run out of the gallery in such a hurry somebody must have thought there's a mass shooting happening in there, with John's angry hand pressing on his head hard and Ginger having a fucking seizure on the back seat.

 

***  
Magical sea maiden  
***

 

The first time Ginger sits on his cock is on tour.

It is not only on tour, it is close to the end of it, and they are both feeling like something that's been dug up from the ground by nineteenth century moustache wearing British archeologists, so conditions are not ideal.

They lie in bed in Ginger's room naked, just hugging at first, Ginger telling Tim something Tim doesn't focus on, going instead for just toying with Ginger's cock. Then Ginger starts shifting and twisting next to him, so Tim sits up and asks what's up.

"Can you fuck me?" Ginger says, after they smoke two cigarettes each, sitting side by side, Ginger pathetic, Tim just looking at his cock he can never ever get enough of.

"Oh," Tim says. "Is it urgent?"

 

And that is a really strange thing to say, according to Tim's standarts, but it is still those miserable early days during which Ginger freaks out every other time Tim goes anywhere near his asshole, unless Tim has him worked up so much he turns into a pile of helpless goo before touching him there. It is still those days during which sometimes they just sit on the bed in a room that smells of shame, Ginger white as a sheet and feeling guilty and Tim thinking he wasn't designed for that, not knowing what to do to stop this unsexy fucking suffering.

And it is on tour, and they are both historical artifacts.

 

"Fuck," Ginger says. "I don't know. I keep fucking thinking about it. Can we just finally do it and get it over with? Maybe then I'll calm the fuck down. Okay? I fucking hate myself."

That conversation is not one Tim wants to continue, so he agrees, taking a vow in his head that he is going to be nice this time for once in his fucking life, like genuinely fucking nice.

He keeps it right until Ginger actually ends up on his cock. Then, of course, he goes thermonuclear just seeing that and does horrible, unspeakable, unforgivable things.

 

But first he lets Ginger kiss him for as long as he wants to. He runs his hands over his body in an abhorrently tender manner. He sucks his cock he can never ever get enough of not to make him come, but to make him relax. He listens to Ginger begging him to do it with Ginger on top of him, because that way he won't be able to see his fucking hole and his shit in it, even though Tim really wants to tell him he doesn't have a fucking microscope handy and won't be conducting scientific fucking research anyway. So they do it with Ginger on top of him, even though Tim doesn't know the more uncomfortable position for the first time unless one is specifically aiming for torture, Ginger stretching himself in countless miserable failed attempts, not letting Tim's generous helping fucking hand anywhere near his hole. Tim is nice and patient through all of that. Tim is a fucking saint.

Then his cock is finally in Ginger, Ginger sitting on top of him, his legs and arms strained, face sweaty and red, mouth open wide as if there is an invisible lightbulb stuck in it, hot and oh so tight around him, Tim looking at him feeling he's been blessed, thanking his full bladder and the rock he kicked with his boot and the carelessly closed door of the tour bus, feeling plutonium in his chest about to tear him apart.

"Oh my fucking God," Ginger says, moving his hips up. "Tim. Fuck, Tim."

Ginger moves again, down this time, and Tim thinks he is just going to descend into pure endless bliss that second, but then Ginger looks down, away from Tim's face, and Tim sees the fucking thought go through his mind, his face breaking into a pattern that is so familiar to Tim and is so dreaded by him, a pattern that Tim loathes with the full force of his nuclear powered heart. He knows what is going to happen next.

Ginger looks back at him, his face a white stiff unmoving mask of self fucking hatred and shame.

"Sorry," he says, starting to fall off him. "Sorry, I can't. I'm fucking disgusting."

And with that Tim grabs him by the arms, lifting himself, his abdomen muscles strained, squeezing his hands tight around him, Ginger sliding awkwardly back on Tim's cock, deep, to the fucking root, shaking.

And with that he speaks.

"Give it to me," he says. "Fuck your filthy shithole on me and come on my cock."

And with that he pushes Ginger down.

And with that he lifts him up.

Ginger gasps in shock, his head jerking back and then forth with Tim's push, he moans and starts shaking violently on him.

"Oh, God, Tim," he says. "What the fuck—"

"Move," Tim says, holding him tight and pushing him up and down again. "Fuck your shit on my cock."

He doesn't stop speaking and he doesn't stop pushing Ginger, who does indeed start moving or rather flapping there, suspended in thin air, moaning, horrified and shaken as if slapped fourteen billion times across the face and even more than that, because that too happened and Tim can compare, until Ginger comes clenching around him, the ring of muscles hot and pulsing, and it is not a long time by any stretch of imagination that Tim has to do that.

Tim falls on the bed when Ginger is still convulsing on his cock, hugging him tight, his arms pressing into his back, and fucks into him without any restraint for another short string of seconds, coming into him hot and completely destroyed by the blast.

Tim holds him after that, Ginger lying on top of him, shuddering every five seconds, heavy and in absolute ruins.

"What the fuck did you just do to me?" he asks, whispering in Tim's ear between his paroxysms.

 _The only thing I know how to do_ , Tim thinks.

"Shut up," Tim says. "We are so doing this again."

 

***  
Lost treasure  
***

 

Tim runs around the house with John's briefs that somehow got forgotten there pulled over his face, thinking he cannot stand the stink anymore and needs to get out of there this very second.

But he can't.

There's something fucked up happening to his plumbing that needs some heavy demolition to be done by a crew of sweaty grey elderly men with fat fingers and beards, and that will take maybe a week or maybe two, they say, because apparently they all, every single one of them, have interesting exciting lives they need to attend to, and now Tim has to pack his shit and remove every single thing he doesn't want to be touched even if there is only a very remote possibility somebody would even look at it, and then drag his miserable ass to John's place, because Ginger's out of town for the next ten days and nobody has keys to his, since nobody lives there, and suffer through John's playing day and night for a week or maybe even two.

The house fucking stinks.

The house fucking stinks of fucking shit so much Tim thinks he's going to vomit every second from now on until he is dead in the coffin and maybe even after that.

 

It is in the box that's been sitting near the bathroom for fuck knows how long that he finds the long lost dildo from outer space tucked into Ginger's dirty sock.

 _Wow_ , he thinks.

 

He rides the damn thing in the middle of his shit stinking house, hurting himself because what kind of boring fucker ever applies enough lube, _like, show me that solitary most sensible individual on the planet_ , he thinks, John's underwear staying pulled over his blissful face through all that time but for another reason entirely.

He rides the damn thing until he comes all over the place, thinking of every fucking instance he's been with either of the kissing moaning stupid bastards, and then rides it some more, out of pure spite, imagining possible future scenarios.

Then he passes out on the floor of his shit stinking house.

 

He wakes up because of his phone ringing.

"Tim, where the hell are you?" he hears John's voice on the other end of the line. "You should have been here like two hours ago. Is something the matter?"

Tim smells fucking shit all around himself.

The damn space cock is touching his inner thigh.

His ass aches in the best possible way.

"No," he says. "Everything's peachy. Remember that crazy dildo we bought in Berlin though?"

"The one that got lost?"

"Yeah, that one. So, you know... I've found it."

John's laughter that he hears after that is better than any piece of music he's ever listened to in his entire life.

"You sick fuck. What did you do?"

Tim laughs too.

"You know what I did. Come on, pick me up and I'm gonna do it again, okay?"

 

***  
Successfull launch  
***

 

Tim knocks at the door, whistling, a cigarette hanging off his lower lip, the nuclear warhead in his chest grinning for him because his mouth is somewhat busy.

John opens the door, letting him in.

John doesn't recognize the rope, looking at him with confused eyes. Dumb goldfish memory virtuoso he is. He gets it, though, once they are in the room and Ginger lifts his stupid head to look at them and goes red.

"Dude, you told me you were going to burn it," John says, elbowing him.

"Yeah, well, and Ginj here told me I could tie him up. What do you think I'd choose?" Tim says, throwing the rope on the floor.

Ginger has a seizure on the couch.

Though it is a pretty mild one compared to others he's had, because things have progressed wildly and maybe Ginger is actually adjusting to being fucking ruined all the time.

"Get ready. Get naked. Get that awesome cock of yours out," Tim says, taking a deep drag and putting the cigarette out. "We're getting you all tied up and whining."

He just doesn't know how not to push.

It is not what he was sent on this Earth for.

"Do we need anything? How are we fucking him?" John asks him, getting jittery like before a concert.

"Fuck's sake," Ginger says, undressing. "I am in the same room, you know. You sick fucks."

"Chair. We're fucking him on the chair," Tim says, baring his teeth. "And yeah, I know your miserable ass is here. That's, like, the occasion."

John brings a chair and Tim deals with rope the way it was shown in the pictures. He beckons to Ginger to come closer with his finger, quirking his lips, John laughing, standing next to him.

"Sit," he says.

Ginger sits, shivering and closing his eyes.

"Hard already, huh?" Tim says, chuckling. "That awesome fucking cock of yours."

John giggles.

"Okay, now nobody distract me. This is to be done properly. John, lose your motherfucking clothes already."

Tim ties Ginger to the chair, binding him with rope like a human sized Bavarian sausage, but a very uncomfortable one.

"Not too tight?" he inquires, lighting up a cigarette and admiring his own work.

"Fuck. A bit, yeah. A bit too tight," Ginger manages, his head lolling to the side.

"Cool," Tim says. "Wanna smoke before we commence? Any last wishes?"

"Fuck," John says, sitting on the floor next to them, laughing. "You're so horrible it is like a form of art."

"Fuck off," Ginger says. "Give me the damn cigarette."

 

Tim stands near Ginger, holding his head, fingers combing his hair, and they share a cigarette, Tim circling his lips with his thumb every time it is his turn to take a drag. Ginger whines and loses his shit rapidly. John sits on the floor and looks at Ginger's awesome cock like it is a sacred Hindu lingam to be covered in flowers and worshipped and John's just a pious acolyte. And maybe they actually are.

"Yeah, that's the exact level of fucking participation I require my partners to display, okay, John?" Tim asks, smirking, his finger travelling inside Ginger's soft mouth. "A raving motherfucking erection just because I am in the room."

"Fuck off," John snorts, laughing.

Ginger moans and shudders next to Tim, hot, tied up, whining. Fucking pliant goo. Fucking pliant squid goo that's going to be the absolute end of him.

 

"Okay," Tim says. "Listen up. It's anouncement time. That's what's gonna happen here now. I'm going to suffer on the floor where I belong for coming up with this fucked up arrangement. I'm gonna keep my goddamn _angry_ cock stiff and miserable in my pants and I'm gonna lick Ginger's stupid sensitive hot fucking feet. John. You're gonna fuck Ginger's mouth, alright? Touch his lips for me while you're at it. Touch his fucking nipples you've been hiding from me. Fuck him up. Okay, John? I put my trust in you. Ginger. Ginger. Fuck, Ginger. You dumb kinky squid. You know the drill. Suffer. Squirm in the frying pan. Come panting. Get ruined. Get undone."

"Okay," Tim says, after looking at both of them. "No objections here? No? Alright. Let's get down to business then."

 

***  
Rhythm section  
***

 

"Fuck me! Rosy! Rosy, is that you? Come here." Tim exclaims. "Let me bow my head to you. Let me kiss your ripped six pack, praise be upon it. Rosy. Come here."

He drops on his knees, ignoring kissing moaning stupid bastards undoubtedly flipping their shit next to him. And sure enough, Rosy comes there and he bows his head.

"Okay," he says, getting up after a minute and turning back to John and Ginger. "You disrespectful bastards. This is Rosy." He makes a gesture with his hand. "Rosy. These are my shameful bandmates. Forgive their irreverence for they do not know what they are doing. I implore you."

"Oh, shut up already," Rosy says, pushing him away and shaking Ginger's hand. "Rosy. I'm an old friend of Tim's. Nice to meet you guys. I am not a goddess or anything. It's just Tim is not right in the head."

 _Oh, do they know_ , Tim thinks, grinning.

"Alright," he says a bit later. "Now that all necessary formalitiies have been dealt with. Let's go put various things into our mouths."

 

An hour later four of them are sitting in a bar, Rosy and John all over each other, poking at their ink and bragging, John braiding her outrageous black mane, giggling, Rosy puffing circles of smoke at him, Tim half lying on the couch, legs spread wide, looking at the flexing muscles of Rosy's shoulders, his bootfree foot dancing a merry little dance on Ginger's cock, Ginger's on the opposite side of the table, feverish spots on his pale face, asking polite biography related questions smiling like a fucked up modern rendition of Mona Lisa, but one with a really pressing erection in her pants.

"Damn, your friend's cute," Rosy says, sitting next to him, solid as a rock, swinging her arm over his shoulder, when John drags Ginger to the counter to buy him some peanuts.

Tim chuckles, tilting his head to look at them. Fucking John in fucking feathers. Ginger with his awesome cock.

"I thought you were into spanking ladies," he says, lighting up a cigarette.

"Eh. How long haven't we seen each other again? I figured a bit of bi doesn't hurt anybody."

Tim laughs.

"Smart," he says.

She looks at the pair of stupid moaning bastards over her shoulder.

"I'd spank that."

Tim laughs again. Fucking John and his glitter and gold.

"Awesome hands. You said he was playing piano in a swing band when you guys were in Berlin?"

_Oh._

_Oh_ , Tim thinks and even sits up a bit.

_Damn._

"Fuck, Rosy," he says. "I thought you meant John."

She snorts, puffing out the smoke.

"Duh. No. I mean, yeah, great ink and he's rocking that style and everything. But. I like'em timid. Organic, you know."

Tim slides back down even lower than he did before, looking at the ceiling, laughing, his nuclear bomb of a heart laughing as well.

"Well, if it is Ginger that you want, then you can have him," he says, smirking at her. "Provided I can watch."

"Oh," Rosy says. "Seriously? Oh, Tim. Tim, you've been bad." She punches his arm with her iron fist.

"What can I say?" he says, grinning. "Remember those extraordinary motherfucking breakfasts I was cooking for you and your ladies?"

"Sure. What about'em?"

 _What about them indeed_ , Tim thinks.

"Well, he's that. Breakfast."

 

"Okay, Your Eminence," Tim says, standing outside Ginger's hotel room the next day with Rosy. "So I asked him, and no promises on the actual spanking, but I am on bass and he's on drums, so expect at least some notes being hit and beaten, you know."

 

***  
Facial traitor  
***

 

"Fuck's sake, John," Tim spits out, standing in the doorway and not letting John in. "I fucking sit here, waiting for you like a damsel in extreme sexual frustration, and you return to me with this?"

"Fuck you," John says, slapping his arm. "Fuck off and let me in."

"What's up?" Ginger says, poking his head out over Tim's shoulder.

"That repugnant shit. Look at it. Ginger. Look at it and tell me it is not an abominable face sucking monster."

"Fuck, Tim," John says, irritated. "It's just a beard. Let me in."

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says. "Let him in. It's just a fucking beard. Hi, John."

 

Tim gets pushed into the house with joint effort of four hands and some other more robust body parts, and these are not the proudest five minutes of his life.

The bastards dare to sit on his couch and hug, Ginger kissing John and that hideous chin pussy of his.

"Dude," Tim says, towering over them. "I'm serious. What did you do to your beautiful fucking face?"

"Thank you," John says. "You're sexy too. And that's a beard."

"Shave it off."

John laughs.

"Tim. Don't talk to him like that. It's just a fucking beard."

"It's hideous. I fucking hate it. I will fight it in a battle to death."

"Hey," Ginger says, touching his hand. "Fucking stop. There's nothing wrong with having a beard. I used to have one. I've thought about growing it again a couple of times too."

Tim looks at him.

"No. Fuck, not you too. No."

"Okay," Ginger says. "Relax. I don't care. I won't. Just leave John alone. Let him have his motherfucking beard."

 

Tim goes to have a cigarette in the kitchen, emerging after he's had four.

"John," he says.

John looks up at him from his own fucking couch, Ginger with a palm full of peanuts next to him.

"I fucking beg you. Shave it off. Like, grow it later, not now. I mean you're obviously allowed and everything. But like, not now. Later. You know, when I am old and useless anyway. When I have erectile fucking dysfunction. Please."

"Fuck off," John says.

"Okay then. I'm gonna go pluck my fucking eyeballs out. I'm gonna spend the rest of my days blindfolded. I am not looking at you ever again."

 

Somehow the only thing that John actually hears him saying is 'blindfolded', so until the hideous face sucking monster is finally shaved off a week later by Ginger's helping hand with full consent of all the participating parties the kissing moaning stupid bastards spend every waking hour fucking Tim with John's ridiculous scarf covered in sparkles tied over his eyes. And it is not ideal, of course, but at least there was something to be gained from that terrible, desperate, abysmal fucking situation, Tim decides at the end.

 

***  
No shit  
***

 

Surprisingly, this happens at GInger's.

At Ginger's.

As if Ginger actually being at his own house is not a fucking singularity occuring approximately once in fourteen billion years.

 

But he's there, cleaning the place, because the spiders started causing troubles and creating decadent art pieces on the windows, so his neighbours got worried.

Tim goes through John's things absent mindedly, touching stuff, while John's stuck in the bathroom, waiting for him to kiss him goodbye. _Fuck, I kiss people goodbye now_ , Tim thinks. _Appalling_ , he thinks.

Then the little elves work their magic and get him a nice present that he's held in his hands before.  
After John finally emerges he too shrugs, giggling, and says Tim can have it.

So Tim goes to Ginger's place, relishing the smell of blood.

 

"Stop devouring my fucking face," Tim says, pushing Ginger away, and gets into the house. Into Ginger's miraculously transformed clean house.

"Wow, nice job," he says, standing in the middle of the room, then switching to the topic that is actually on his mind. "Hey, Ginj. Do you happen to have your lines in Manson's songs on your computer? Like, separately, without his hideous voice there."

Ginger shrugs.

"Yeah, I should have a few."

"Okay. Find me some. Find me the slowest one you can."

"Why?"

"Just do it. But like a really slow one."

Ginger turns on his computer and clicks on some folders.

"Hm. Man that you fear? That works for you?"

Tim actually has to supress a shark grin full of teeth forming on his face right there, because he has a plan for delivering his surprise and it is not giving himself away three seconds before the start.

 _But fuck_ , he thinks. _Man that you fear indeed._

"Yeah, that's perfect," he says. "Can you play it in a loop?"

"Okay."

The slow drum beat fills the room and Tim bangs his head several times to it. _Yeah, that definitely works_ , he thinks.

"So what's up? I mean it's not my drumming talents appreciation day, so..." Ginger looks at him expectantly.

 _Smart little squid_ , Tim thinks, closes the gap between them and shoves his little present in Ginger's hand.

"The fuck is that?" Ginger asks, Tim feeling his confused hand moving under his fingers.

"It's a gift to mark the occasion," Tim says, looking around the exceptionally clean room. "Celebratory Butt Plug I got off John. That is going up your filthy hole that's full of crap while I ride you. Oh, and the beat is for me to behave myself for the sake of leisurely torture."

Then Ginger's scared stupid hand starts trembling under his heartless fingers and Tim feels the nuclear fucking joy he cannot even begin to describe.

 

Some other minor miracles also occur.

"Seriously? That's it? That's all you fucking needed? I am relieved of my ridiculous shit duty? This is a blessed fucking day," Tim says, lowering himself on Ginger's cock. "Fuck, this is a blessed fucking cock you've got."

Ginger lets out a wet moan, pressing into Tim, his hand sliding down his spine.

"Fuck. I don't know. It's just you called it a plug. And now I feel like all of my... you know. That all of it is locked up in there and won't be coming out," Ginger laughs a bit at his own words.

"Jesus, you're a fucked up maniac," Tim says, rocking his hips experimentally. "Okay, shut your face now. And get off me. Sit the fuck up. Hands on the bed. Sharks need freedom of movement."

 

Both of them end up talking, though, and normally Tim would raise fucking objections to that, but this time it is as if John's Celebratory Butt Plug carried within some of John's weird conversational magic, so it is a seriously hot fucking talk they have.

Because Ginger sits there with his hands firmly on the bed, his stupid gasping face tilted up, looking at Tim, moaning with his soft wet motherfucking lips he likes being ravaged so damn much and telling him just how deeply he enjoys the festive plug up his hole stretching him. Because then Tim bestows Ginger's cock stretching him with a string of praise using every divine phallic symbol reference he can think of. Because after that they compare their respective anal fucking sensations in their respective stretched fucking holes caused by their respective fucking kernels, and the only reason Tim doesn't come right there and then hearing Ginger talking about his slick tight delicious ass is Ginger's magnificent drumming talents, Tim steadying himself to the rhythm with unimaginable will power. Ginger, on the other hand, doesn't come because Tim tells him he can't yet and that man doesn't know how to say no.

Instead they come one after another a bit later, slapping each other across the face a couple of times, because that day is indeed fucking blessed.

 

And as if that is not enough, a couple of minutes after that, when they are just lying there, hot and heavy, the butt plug is still in GInger's steaming hole and Tim's ass full of his boiling junk, Ginger says that he wants to tell him something, and Tim is bracing himself for another fucking love confession, but no, it is not that.

"Fuck off," Ginger says, laughing softly beneath him. "No, it's something else. Just something I thought about, while we were doing this, you know."

"Okay. I am intrigued," Tim says.

Ginger licks his soft wet motherfucking lips.

"I uh... Can I whisper it into your ear?" he says, a modest squid maiden with a plug up his ass he is.

Tim snorts.

"Alright."

Then there is his hot and wet breath in his ear and a breaking voice asking him for more horrible filth he has a supply of in large quantities always on offer.

"Ginger," Tim says, after Ginger stops speaking and breathes into his neck. "You really are one of a kind. Need you ask?"

 

***  
Song writing material  
***

 

Tim waits until the kissing moaning bastards pass out on his bed, then gets up quietly, moving like a stealthy hunting shark, grabs his phone and goes into the kitchen, shutting the door tight behind himself.

He lights up a cigarette, takes a deep drag and dials.

"Fucking hell," he hears Brian's raspy voice on the other end of the line. "Do you have any idea what hour it is? You Swedish cunt."

Tim puffs out the smoke.

"Brian. Brian. Wake up. I've got news. Get out a motherfucking pen. We need to write some lyrics, Brian. We need to write some motherfucking lyrics. Brian, I've got tied up."

 

***  
Dope shark  
***

 

"Sure," Tim says, and it is not his smartest moment in life. "Sure I want'em. Any sort of dope can enter my mouth."

Pogo laughs like a hyena, shaking to the beat next to him in a club.

Because they've all done it.

Because they never learn.

"You blond scum," he says and shoves the pills into Tim's mouth with his repugnant hand, and Tim doesn't even do anything about it, no vomiting, no punching, because he is that wasted on tequila and unreasonable. "Here."

Tim chews on the pills and they continue shaking to the beat.

 

Some time later Tim is shaking on the fucking ground, vomiting blood, and Pogo is not even there to at least laugh at him.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, _I'm gonna live fast and die young here._

 _Fuck_ , he thinks, _I could have chosen a different moment to do it. A better fucking moment._

And at that point in time he hasn't yet lived through many of the glorious hours that he thinks are going to be the absolute end of him one day, but there are plenty of instances to choose from, and all of them are better than dying on the fucking ground, cold, sweaty, shaking, in really unsexy pain that ruptures his stomach.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks. _I could've died on Ginger's cock instead._

 _Fuck_ , he thinks. _I could've died on both Ginger and John's cocks._

 _Fuck_ , he thinks. _Why hadn't I died then?_

 

He manages to pull out his phone between his paroxysms. He calls John.

He calls John, because John is probably still up jerking his guitar, while Ginger is fast asleep in Tim's bed with his ass bare and his wifebeater hitched up.

He calls John, because even if it was another way around he wouldn't call Ginger anyway. Not after last tour. Not after _that._

"What do you need? I'm playing," John's angry voice says on the other end of the line.

 _Of course, you are_ , Tim thinks and smiles internally. Then when he tries for an answer he cannot give one, retching on the fucking ground for fourteen billion miserable years.

"Tim, what the fuck was that?" John asks again, his voice with a completely different quality to it now.

"Fuck," Tim spits out. "I need your help. I think I am actually fucking dying here. Like with my genuine fucking body."

There is some more misery after that.

"Fuck, Tim, what is hapenning?" John shouts on the other end of the line.

"I went clubbing with Pogo," Tim hurries out, because he knows what's coming next and what's coming soon. "I took some pills. I don't know what kind. I am vomiting blood on the ground."

Then the dreadful thing visits him again.

"Shit. Okay. Where are you at?" John asks, when Tim can breathe again.

"On the fucking ground. Near a dumstper."

 _Exactly where you should be, you dumb shit_ , Tim thinks.

"Fuck, Tim. Like what part of town? What club did you go to?"

"I don't fucking know. The club part of town. The blue Spanish club."

"The blue Spanish club? Are you fucking serious?"

Tim suffers some more, fingers scratching the concrete.

"Fuck, John. I am wasted. I really don't know. It shouldn't be far from the club. Okay? Ask Pogo."

"Fuck, yeah, like Pogo isn't wasted."

"Ask Brian. He knows the place."

"Okay. Okay. Don't fucking die there. I'm coming. Do you want me to call Ginger?"

Tim has a seizure after that, and there is not one, but two reasons for that.

"Fuck, John. Of course not. Don't tell Ginger. Okay? Don't tell fucking Ginger."

"Why?"

 _Why_ , Tim thinks.

 _Why shouldn't you tell the mother hen_ , he thinks.

 _Why shouldn't you tell the giant motherfucking squid with tender loving tentacles_ , he thinks.

"John. Don't tell him. Please. Don't."

"Why the fuck not?" Tim hears John shout into the phone, the car starting in the background.

 _Because we lived together in Berlin like an elderly fucking couple, but where one eats another alive_ , he thinks.

 _Because we did the same in my fucking house here, but with some asshole touching issues that I pushed at added on top_ , he thinks.

 _Because I told him I was going to slap him and he said I could do anything, smiling at me, and I fucking did_ , he thinks.

_Because I am the one who should die first and let you two be happy._

_Not fucking Ginger._

"Because that is not how I like to fucking hurt him, that's why," Tim says, spitting blood. "Just please don't tell him, okay? Please. Please."

"Fuck. You sick motherfuckers. How do even imagine me not telling him? He is at your fucking house, Tim."

"I know. Don't tell him."

"Fuck. Okay. You shit. Hang in there, I'm coming. Don't fucking die next to a dumpster. I'm killing you myself."

"Okay," Tim manages. "Just don't tell Ginger."

"Fuck off," John says.

 

There are no short or long term memories in Tim's dumb shark head after that.

 

Then he is alternating between feverish nightmares of a dead carcass rotting on sand and looking at John's furious face, that going on for some time, but what time exactly Tim doesn't know and doesn't want to know, deliberately avoiding calendars for a while after that incident.

Then, of course, he is presented with a white faced shaking giant squid who touches him with his scared stupid fingers.

"Fuck, John," he manages upon seeing him.

"Yeah, well, he is at your fucking house. Do you have any fucking idea how long you have been in here?

 _No_ , Tim thinks. _Please, don't tell me._

He eats mashed bullshit that he has to cook for himself, because John is not yet over the idea of throttling him and Ginger, of course, would give him his helping fucking hand and even both of them, but they were meant for different things.

He sucks the said bullshit through a straw even though he'd much rather be sucking on something else, but who would let him.

He feels like that mashed bullshit through the whole calendar avoidance period, thinking that he's known shame and that he's hit the absolute bottom and that he's never going to hurt the kissing moaning bastards again.

 

Boy, is he wrong about that.

 

Boy, is he just starting.

 

 

***  
Book worms  
***

 

"What's that?" Tim asks, a toothpick in his mouth, leaning against the kitchen table.

"Where?" Ginger looks up at him, abandoning his green tea, his face covered in lines from where he's been sleeping on the pillow.

"There," Tim says, pointing at it.

 _Reasons and persons_ , it says on the cover.

"It's a book."

Tim snorts.

"I'm not fucking blind. What kind of a book?"

Ginger sighs.

"Philosophy, I guess."

Tim hums.

"Did you buy it?" he asks, lighting up a cigarette.

"No, I got it at a book club."

Tim actually jumps at that.

"A what?"

Ginger turns with his whole body to him.

"A book club. A place where people meet and talk about fucking books."

Tim starts giggling.

"Fuck you," Ginger says. "Give me the damn smoke."

Tim shoves the cigarette into his mouth, momentarily distracted by his lips.

"Fuck, you're insufferable in the morning."

 _Yeah, but you love pounding my ass so much in the evening_ , Tim thinks, grinning.

"Maybe. But seriously, a book club?"

"Fuck off, Tim. I've actually met some nice people in there."

Tim laughs again and then there is a bit of physical altercation, after which Tim finds himself standing bent next to the thing. His dignity restored, he decides to browse it.

"Wow, Ginj. That's not just 'philosophy, I guess'. That's like hardcore philosophy."

Ginger shrugs.

"You know, you do have a stupid face, but not stupid enough to compensate for that by suffering through this shit."

"Fuck off. Fuck you. I am not compensating for anything, you sick fuck. I happen to like philosophy."

Tim snorts.

"Yeah, like your endless volumes of religious bullshit are any better. Some jerks arguing about if women have souls. Disgusting."

Tim puffs out the smoke.

"Of course women don't have disgusting fucking souls. Women have tasty pussies with full bodily autonomy to reign over them and minds of their own. _Souls._ "

Ginger laughs.

"Why do you even fucking read it? You and Brian. You sick fucks."

"You don't get it?" Tim says, still skimming through the book. "It's like an acid trip."

"I haven't done acid."

"Oh. Okay. I'll make a note of that," he smirks. "It's kinda like these fuckers say: look, you think this all doesn't make any sense, but it does, and we're going to explain to you exactly how."

"So?"

"So then they say: look, there is a donkey who is also the President of the United States and he was reborn and went to heaven on batterflies, now count these cocks we've forcibly put in your mouth and join us in the dance that is saint on Tuesdays and a sin on Wednesdays, so don't mix them up or the donkey will eat your heart out forever."

Ginger laughs.

"And then you pick up the next book and there is another fucker going: oh no, you've been told it is a donkey, but it is a wrong translation, it is actually a vacuum cleaner that will suck the life out of you. It's fucking priceless. Well, that's what I think. Brian probably just jerks off to all of that while reading. Judging by the fucking stains."

"Okay, okay. I get it. But still, I think I'll stick to my hardcore philosophy stuff," Ginger says, gets up and goes into the room.

Tim puts the cigarette out, finishes his coffee and takes another look at the book. Then a vague thought crosses his mind.

"Hey," he says, entering the room, Ginger on the couch watching TV. "What nice people have you met at that book club of yours?"

Ginger goes bright red.

"Oh," Tim says and then starts laughing. "So that's where you chatted up that beautiful redhead professor of yours. Book fucking club. You shit."

"Fuck off."

"Right. Come on, I am already fucking hard. You shit. We're so fucking right now."

 

And they do.

  
And it is glorious.

 

In the evening Tim pokes his head into the kitchen in search of smokes and sees the book again.

"Hey, Ginj," he shouts. "Do you mind if I read that hardcore philosophy thing of yours?"

"Nope," Ginger shouts back at him from the bedroom. "I am still reading that stupid detective story I told you about."

Ginger falls asleep an hour later, and Tim stays up for two more, reading the thing.

In the morning the next day he wakes up wondering why the giant squid is not molesting him with his tender fucking tentacles yet. That turns out to be because the squid is reading Tim's damn book sitting in the kitchen, and by that time the book _is_ already Tim's.

"Fuck's sake," Tim says, towering over Ginger.

Ginger shrugs.

"That detective story sucked."

"Well, I want my book back."

"It's my book."

"Yeah, and this is my house."

 _And you are my breakfast anyway_ , Tim thinks.

"Come on. Stop it. Can we behave like motherfucking adults for once?"

Tim throws away the toothpick.

"Hm. Probably not, but I might have a solution. What page are you on?"

"Seventy sixth."

"Okay. So I was on ninety second, I guess."

"You fucking were. What did you do that page?"

"Marked it to know where I stopped," Tim says.

"Fuck," Ginger says. "That looks more like you fucking murdered it."

"Whatever. Here's the plan. I'm gonna go have a shit and smoke and you read it till you're on my page, okay? And then we'll just read it together."

"Uh. This stuff is kinda heavy."

"Well, I'll try to shit longer. And anyway, you're the native speaker here. Suck it up."

 

Ginger sucks it up and Tim smokes on the toilet a bit longer.

Then they read the damn book together.

 

"Did you understand a single fucking word we just read?" Tim asks some hours later.

"Fuck," Ginger says, rubbing his face. "Not really. I'm starving."

So Tim makes them a quick dinner, because it is already fucking dinner and even past that. Then they read the book again, passing out in the process and continuing after they wake up again.

"I'm starting to have this feeling that this guy is trying to convince me I am not real," Ginger says the next day, chewing on cookies he lifts off Tim's palm with his mouth.

"Yeah, and I feel like he's accusing me of being a bad person."

"You are a horrible motherfucking shark. Nobody needs to read a book to understand you are a bad person."

"Fuck off. I have a temporal fucking conflict with rationality."

"Fuck. I still don't get it," Tim says later, around 4 am, yawning, his hand on Ginger's cock.

"Me neither. It's fucked up. What does he fucking mean, not the same person?"

Tim sighs.

"Okay, how about I suck you off now and then we sleep and then we read it again?"

Ginger says yes, because the word "no" is not present in his vocabulary, so Tim sucks his cock and they sleep and when they wake up they read the book again.

"I fucking stink," Ginger says, sunset coloring his tired face.

"Whatever. Come here. Let's fucking sleep," Tim says, pulling him close, kicking empty peanut bags off the bed with his feet.

"Future fucking people," Tim says, standing in the kitchen naked, making some bullshit for them to eat without looking at it.

"Fuck, I explained it to you already. That's not the issue here. Fucking teleportation is."

"Nope. Dude, he wants to take away my smokes."

"Yeah, and that thing kills you."

"No, it fucking doesn't."

They lie on the floor six hours later.

"Jesus, Ginj, you fucking stink."

"Yeah, and you're still touching my fucking cock. All the fucking time."

"Let's sleep. Okay?"

"Okay. Then we can read it again."

 

They don't, though, because then John comes to Tim's place, because everybody has keys to Tim's place, and expresses his extreme sexual frustration along with even more severe aversion to the state the two of them have descended into.

He takes away the book, so Tim calls a cleaning crew, and they go to John's and fuck him on his hands and knees after he locks them up in the bathroom to have a proper wash.

Tim is sure the book is rotting somewhere in the dumpster thrown there by John's angry hand, but no, it isn't, because much later, when he is ransacking John's kitchen yet again for fuck knows which time looking for the damn salt, he finds it rotting under the sink, mold covering the pages, some old toothbrushes on top of it.

 

***  
Filth  
***

 

"So you're in?" Tim asks, leaning on the bathroom door.

"Of course. That's hot. Your shitstorm fucking is hot," John says on the other end of the line.

Tim chuckles.

"Cool. Just tone the shit part down though. I don't fucking know how it works in his head, but that is something only I am allowed to say. Maybe because I am a certified monster and you are a sweetheart."

"Okay. Of course. Sorry."

"No problem. Anyway, we're gonna come soon, okay?"

"Alright. See you."

John hangs up. Tim opens the door.

"Ginj!" he shouts, giggling. "Get ready. We're going to John's to get your diarrea hammered just like you asked."

That is gratified not only by a muffled 'fuck' he hears from the bedroom, but also by some whining and a hard cock under his hand during their entire drive.

 _Squirming squid goo_ , he thinks, pulling over near John's house.

 

"Ginj," John says, casually exchanging pleasantries up there while Tim does all the heavy lifting down here. Not that he minds. "You're fucking hot. I fucking love you."

Ginger moans, his hole clenching around Tim's fingers. _Not that I mind indeed_ , Tim thinks, smiling.

"Ginj," John says again, voice breathy. "Can I look?"

That lands spectacularly well, hot steaming seizures and all. Tim starts to think he actually might need to tie his own fucking cock at the base to live through this, because he doesn't have Ginger's enormous fucking resolve.

"Fuck, John. Yeah."

John slides down the bed to sit next to Tim.

"Fucking hell," John says, then covers his mouth with his hand.

 _Yeah, you're telling me_ , Tim thinks.

"Hey, Ginj," he says, puffing out the smoke. "John here loves your tight crappy orifice."

There's another seizure after that, John witnessing it for the first time from this peculiar angle and whining on the floor like he does best.

"Fuck, Tim. I'm gonna fucking come," Ginger manages, after his legs stop shaking.

"Nope. We're just warming up."

"Fuck you. John. Fuck, John."

Tim stays on the floor, where he belongs. John goes back up to perform his conversational responsibilities.

Well, first the kissing moaning bastards kiss and moan. Them being the kissing moaning bastards.

"Jesus, Ginj. You're fucking awesome," John says.

"Fuck. I uh... Fuck, John. I need you to fucking tell me. Is it..." Ginger gulps. Tim thinks of biting his throat. "Was it, you know... Fuck. Fuck, I can't."

Tim sees John's feet getting scared.

"Fuck, Ginj. Of course not. It was alright."

Tim sees Ginger's feet still being terrified.

"I uh... Fuck, is that... Are you..."

Tim is not having that.

"He's fucking lying," Tim says, moving his fingers and leaking on the fucking floor. "Your hole is not alright. Your hole is full of shit and both my hands are fucking filthy because of you. But not to worry, you're going to fuck all of your crap back up your ass on my cock. You're gonna fuck your shit on me and come into John's lying fucking mouth."

The kissing moaning stupid bastards go into shock, and when Tim gets up two or three seconds later he joins them.

 _A fucking pile of squid goo_ , he thinks.

Those fucking lips. That dumb fucking face. The fucking throat that needs to be ripped open. The bony motherfucking knees. _A shaking pile of kinky shitgoo_ , he thinks. That fucking awesome cock. A whole whining guitar jerking idiot next to all of that as if it is not fucking enough.

 _The absolute fucking end of me_ , Tim thinks.

"Come on, you shit," he says, hauling Ginger up by the sweaty mess of his hair. "Cock time. Come on. Let's get your filthy hole fucked."

John falls off the bed.

"Oh my fucking God," he says.

"Oh my fucking God," Ginger says too.

 _Yeah, what about my fucking Gods_ , Tim thinks. _All my terrible pagan Gods that are no doubt jerking off like mad about all of this._

He sits on the edge of the bed, Ginger landing heavily in his lap, sweaty and hot and shaking. He urges him on his cock.

"Come on," he says, pushing him. "Get it in. Fuck yourself."

Ginger lowers himself on his cock, managing to do that the first time he tries. _Shitsorcery_ , Tim thinks. _Minor miracles._

John gasps on the floor not unlike the magical sea creature Tim has on his cock, stretched and hot and fucking pulsing around him.

"Fuck, Tim. Fuck. Hold me. I'm gonna fucking come."

"Nope. Come on, fuck yourself. You're gonna fuck your crap for John here just a bit before he gets to suck your awesome motherfucking cock. You're gonna fuck your filthy shit for me here, okay? Since I am a damn shitdildo for you today. Just a little bit. Come on. Move. Give your hole to me."

 _Those are some powerfull magical spells_ , Tim thinks.

 _Who needs fucking premonition_ , he thinks, _when you just create your own future with your words._

 

John whines on the floor through all of Tim's short, but magnificent future, staring at Ginger and at his damn swaying awesome motherfucking cock with an expression Tim suspects he himself is also wearing at the moment. That fucking cock.

"Yeah?" he says after a minute or so, because that wasn't the damn arrangement. Because filth was requested from him. Because filth will be delivered exactly as he promised. Because he is just a suffering stiff shitdildo for today. Until the shaking squid goo comes in John's goddamn mouth, that is. "Enough?"

Ginger shakes in his arms, back pressed to his chest.

"Okay. Alright, you fucking shit. John. Haul your ass here. Suck him off. I'll just sit still here. I'll just sit still here and try not to come into your miserable orifice, Ginger. Fuck."

Ginger turns his head a bit, the sweaty mess of his hair now resting on Tim's shoulder, those soft wet lips touching his neck.

The whining guitar jerk finally takes Ginger's cock into his mouth.

 _Behold_ , Tim thinks.

 _Fucking hell_ , Tim thinks. _I am not surviving this._

"Hey, you squid goo," he says, nudging Ginger a little, Ginger responding with an open mouth moan. "Look at him. Look at fucking John. Come on. Let's look together."

They look together, Tim a stiff aching suffering shitdildo on the edge of the bed, muscles strained, teeth gritted, Ginger on top of him, squirming on his cock with his tight fucking hole, boneless and hot and moaning.

Fucking John looks back.

Smirking and somehow shocked at the same time.

 _Another fucking Mona Lisa_ , Tim thinks.

 _Yeah, smirk away_ , Tim thinks. _I know how my fucking face looks now. I've seen it before. We all have seen it before. A haunted fucking shark snout with teeth._

He pulls at Ginger's sweaty hair, yanking his head back to look at him, Ginger's mouth open. _That fucking mouth he likes being ravaged by my heartless fingers_ , Tim thinks.

"That what you wanted? Yeah? Good. Fucking enjoy it. You shit. You panting shit."

"I fucking love you, Tim," Ginger says.

Of course, he says it.

"I'll just fucking eat you alive one day, you know?" Tim says.

Of course, he says it.

John whines on the floor with Ginger's awesome cock in his mouth.

Of course, John whines.

Aren't those their natural fucking states?

"Fuck, Tim," Ginger says, looking up at him. "Gonna come. Gonna come right now."

"Okay. Fuck. Okay. Come. Then I'll finally fuck your filthy fucking hole."

Ginger moans, his hole clenching around Tim.

"Just hold me. Just don't let me go," he says, waves of heat and profound fucking love landing on Tim's haunted shark face. "Tim. Fucking kiss me. Just fucking kiss me."

 _Well_ , Tim thinks. _Since I kiss people goodbye now._

 

Ginger comes into John's whining mouth, clenching around Tim, moaning into his shark snout with teeth.

  
Tim squeezes the pliant squid goo in his arms, pushing into him, finally moving, Ginger's head on his shoulder, his white fucking throat in mere centimeters from his bloodthirsty face, John looking up at them, mouth open, hand on his cock.

"Give it to me," Tim says, looking at him. "Come on. Get ruined."

He fucks into Ginger's moaning body for a short spectacular minute after what seems like fourteen billion years of stiff shitdildo torture, looking at John looking back at them, jerking off and whining on the floor.

  
Then he comes and John comes and Ginger just flaps there in his lap, swearing and saying both their names a lot, suspended in thin air, and it seems that everybody gets properly entertained after all.

 

"Fuck," John says, hugging Ginger's dead body, looking at Tim puffing out smoke next to them. "Was this seriously his motherfucking idea?"

 

 

***  
Not just a pretty face  
***

 

Tim is a bit afraid to ask him.

Like, with his genuine nuclear warhead of a heart afraid.

But he grits his teeth and he manages.

 

"John," he says, and John looks up at him, flapping his mascara covered eyelashes at him. "I uh... Look, I don't want to get kneed in the face again and I respect your fucking pacifism, but I've been in snot motherfucking hell for the last two days and Brian's been anally raping me for the last five and we're playing tomorrow. I need to blow off some steam."

"Okay," John says, showing inexplicable understanding. "What do you want to do?"

Tim shrugs.

"Boxing ring?"

 

The funny thing is, once they are on the ring - and John does go with him, saying that punching his dumb shark face is his most cherished dream, so no worries - Tim doesn't get to blow off any steam, he just gets multiple blows landing on his indeed dumb shark face.

When he is chilling out on the floor twenty minutes later, spitting his not so sharp and not so scary teeth out, John straddles his thighs, giggling.

"Dude, what was that all about? I know you can punch. Is that another weird sex thing and you were coming in your pants all the while?"

"Fuck off," Tim says. "Couldn't fucking hit your pretty motherfucking face."

 _Your beautiful mascara wearing face_ , he thinks.

 

Before the concert, the next day, John paints the biggest motherfucking mouth in history on his beaten visage with skill that's been previously applied, the previous owner of the said mouth sitting next to them and sniffing his vomit inducing snot.

 

That concert doesn't suck, but the drumming is a bit off.

 

***  
Ground level  
***

 

"Fuck, John," Tim says, getting inside. "How do you manage to be dressed like a pimp primadonna from ankles up and still wear shoes like that?"

John snorts.

"Don't fucking know. My shoes suck."

 _Yeah, because you buy them_ , Tim starts thinking, but John's already pulling him into the house.

Then they jam. Then Tim shoves his face into John's hole and stays blissfully pressed there until John comes, asking Tim to annihilate him, moaning deep and low. _I would_ , Tim thinks, _but then you'd start whining about your hurting ass._ So he doesn't do things he himself enjoys to John, because he learned that lesson, thank you very much, and instead tortures his cock for John's continuous amusement.

Then John gets dressed, turning into a pimp diva in feathers and school kid sneakers again, and Tim decides this shit has to stop.

"Come on," he says, sitting up on the bed and putting out the smoke. "I am buying you motherfucking shoes I can look at without my eyes exploding."

"Sweet," John says. "Sugar daddy."

There is a bit of physical altercation after that.

 

When they get to the store Tim quickly comes to an understanding of John's shoes problem, because when a shop assistant asks John what size he is wearing he asks what sizes they currently have, Tim excusing themselves after that, citing brain damage, and when Tim asks John what he even likes John shrugs and just points at fucking stiletto heels.

So they leave the shop to buy some edible stuff to distract John with while Tim hunts for shoes and Tim has to call Ginger for advice on what exactly it is best to stuff John's mouth with if it isn't his leaking cock.

They get him one sensible pair after what seems like fourteen billion years of John giggling and swinging his feet and Tim trying to put his leather booty on them, all the while thinking of something else entirely that at this point in time he keeps his mouth shut about and so does Ginger.

 

"Hey there," Tim says, coming into the room, putting out the cigarette, Ginger sitting there on the couch with a book and no pants on. "We're so doing that weird feet thing of yours now."

There is a bit of physical altercation after that.

Then Ginger is on his elbows and knees, shuddering, his head hanging low between his shoulders, legs shaking, that awesome cock of his swaying miserably right before Tim's eyes, his toes in Tim's grinning shark mouth.

Then quite some time later, because torture is only good if it lasts, Tim feels he just can't take it anymore, looking at all of that, and decides to specifically aim for reckless, shit-in-the-hole issues or not.

Then Ginger is pressed with his pathetic moaning face into the pillow, his ass in the air and Tim's tongue in it, coming within thirty seconds, convulsing and clenching right under Tim's lips, thermonuclear blasts escaping Tim's wide open mouth.

Then they smoke and Ginger tells him he fucking hates him.

They are not quite there yet.

 

***  
Now  
***

 

"Hey, you two coming or not?" Tim says and pokes his head into John's dressing room.

He is immediately gratified with a sight of John standing there completely naked and Ginger painting his face, his anger with Brian transformed that very instant into nuclear purring of his chest.

He sits in John's dressing room, smoking, watching the pair of giggling idiots, Ginger getting John ready for the concert, John being beautiful.

They rock the hell out of the concert and get stupidly drunk afterwards.

"Fuck, I love you so much," he hears Ginger's voice, waking up, barely present, pressed into the pillow.

"Ginj," he hears John responding to him. "You're fucking awesome."

Tim stays low, his cock gradually getting stiff, pressed into the matress. _Some nice early afternoon torture_ , he thinks, grinning with his nuclear arsenal.

The kissing moaning bastards kiss and moan, never shutting up. _Some sugary early afternoon worship_ , he thinks, plutonium melting in his chest.

Then John asks if Ginger wants to do something, that Tim doesn't quite catch, because the fucking pair of them whispers, careful not to wake him up, and Ginger says 'of course', panting.

There is some suspicious shifting after that.

Then somebody is coming, though it is not Tim, and it seems like that somebody is not alone in that.

The moaning is muffled during all the time it is going on. _What the fuck_ , Tim thinks, getting really curious and really bloodthirsty.

When all he hears is just wet ragged mutual breath of the pile of limbs next to him he sits up in one sharp motion, looking at post-orgasmic disaster hapenning right before him.

And sure enough, there they are: fucking John with his eyes still covered in eyeshadow and mascara put there by Ginger's hand, pressed into Ginger's awesome cock with his delighted and delightfully beautiful face, Ginger a mess of pathetic squid goo, bony knees and sensitive fucking feet and shivering legs, John's cock on his pale face touching his lips Tim does horrible things to all the time.

"Fucking great, Ginger," Tim says, baring his teeth at them. "Now you're sixty nining with fucking John."

The steaming pile of limbs next to him shakes in both laughter and horror, well aware of the impending doom.

"Why the hell," Tim asks, wrapping his dry heartless fingers around his cock and straining his hand, determined to just eat the bastards right there and be done with them. "Why the hell am I always the last one to get the fucking memo?"

 

Horrid angry blissful coming shark.


End file.
